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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


OF 


ORELIA    KEY    BELL 


AUTOU  YaP   SOfJLSV  TTOtfJLO.. 

"For  we  are  his  poem." 


PHILADELPHIA 
THE  RODGERS  COMPANY 


Copyrighted  1895 
By  ORHLIA  KEY  BELL. 


PS 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   MV   FATHER,  |     U  Q  ~> 

MARCUS  A.  BELL, 
IN  LOVING  REVERENCE; 


|  ^  _^ 


MY   MOTHER,   MY   BROTHERS,   MY   SISTER; 

AND  TO  MY  BELOVED  FRIENDS, 

MRS.  MARCUS  W.  BECK, 
MRS.  LIVINGSTON  MIMS, 
MRS.  MARY  POPE  COOPER, 

AND 

IDA  ASH, 
WHOSE  AFFECTION  AND   ENCOURAGEMENT 

HAVE   BEEN  AMONG  THE   CHIEF  SOURCES  OF   MY   INSPIRATION; 
TO 

MY  TEACHERS, 
MY  PASTORS, 
MY  EDITORS, 

AND 
TO  ALL  WHO   LOVE  MY  SONGS,       . 

IN  APPRECIATION  OF 

THEIR   GUIDANCE,   THEIR   INDULGENCE, 
THEIR  MANY  COURTESIES, 

THIS   LITTLE  VOLUME  OF   POEMS   IS 
FAITHFULLY   INSCRIBED. 


764030 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

i  JOHN  iv.  8. 

GOD  IS  IvOVK,  breathes  all  nature's  minstrelsy, 

0  n  earth,  in  air,  upon  the  murmuring  sea ; 
Deep-swelling  note,  it  thrills  the  early  dawn, 

1  nspires  the  day,  and  charms  eve's  dusky  lawn  ; 
Soft,  sacred  lay,  it  cheers  the  midnight  gloom, 
Love's  -voice,  e'en  heard  beyond  the  silent  tomb. 

O  sweetest  music  of  the  spheres  above, 
Vast  spheres  eternal,  ever  breathing  love. 
Eternal  love,  soft  breathing,  GOD  IS  I,OVE- 

M.  A.  1 


CONTENTS. 


LYRICS. 

PAGE 

PRELUDE 13 

To  YOUTH  (Century  Magazine), 31 

GATHERING  ROSES  (New  York  Sun), 31 

MAID  AND  MATRON  (Detroit  Free  Press), 34 

Po'  Jo'  (Atlanta.  Constitution), 35 

MARIPOSA  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 39 

REJECTED  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 46 

HEAVEN'S  FLOOR  (New  Orleans   Times-Democrat), 47 

AT  SUNSET  (Detroit  Free  Press), 48 

SPRINGSONG  (Atlanta  Constitution),    . 50 

LOVE'S  FAITH  (Dixie), 51 

A  DAY  IN  WINTER  ( Century  Magazine), 52 

APART  (Century  Magazine), 52 

MOONRISE  SERENADE 

(N.  O,  Times-Democrat.    Advance  sheet,  by  permission),  53 

HER  WORDS  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 54 

HER  KISSES  (Society), 54 

A  MISSION  OF  CHARITY  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat),     .   .   .    55 

BLIND  TOM  (New  Orleans  Times- Democrat), 57 

THE  DEAD  WORKER  (Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Weekly),  .   .   .    61 

UNDER  VENUS  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat) 62 

LOVE  AND  FAME, 63 

LOVE  HYMN  (Frank  Leslie's  Popular  Monthly), 64 

MY  CUP, 65 

To  A  WHITE  ROSE  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat),    •    ....    66 

VIOLET  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat) 68 

AN  OLD  VALENTINE, 69 

WERE  HER  KISSES  LESS  RARE  ?  (Detroit  Free  Press) 69 

SONG  OF  THE  STAR  JASMINE  (Detroit  Free  Press), 70 

THE  POET  AND  THE  MOTH  (Detroit  Free  Press), 71 

AFTER-PEACE  (Atlanta  Constitution), 72 

SWEET-SHRUBBING  (Detroit  Free  Press), 73 

LEX  TALIONIS  (New  York  Sun) 74 

5 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

LOVE  (Century  Magazine), 74 

GRACE  (Lippincott 's  Magazine), 75 

JAUNETTE  (Detroit  Free  Press}, 75 

A  MAY  REGRET  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat') 77 

A  SPRIG  OF  PERIWINKLE, 77 

RAIN  IN  THE  DUST  (Atlanta  Constitution),  • 78 

THE  ETERNAL  HOPE, 79 

UNDER  OUR  FLAG  (Henry  James"1  Standard), 79 

TENNYSON  IN  OLD  AGE  ( Chicago  Literary  Life} 80 

AMELIE  RIVES  (Atlanta  Journal), 80 

CORINNE  (Atlanta  Constitution), 82 

RHEA  (Atlanta  Constitution) 83 

RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE 

(A   Telegram  to  little  Ruth  Cleveland  on  her  Arrival  in 

the  Nation), 83 

A  SIMPLE  NOTE  OF  THANKS, 83 

WHAT  FLOWBK  is  BABY  MARY  ?  (  Washington  Chronicle)  ....  84 

BABY'S  FIRST  JOURNEY  (Waverly  Magazine), 85 

"TOGETHER  GREW  UPON  ONE  STEM." 86 

To  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS  OF  1888  (Atlanta  Constitution"),  ....  87 

IN  FLORIDA  (New  Orleans  Times- Democrat), 88 

IN  AN  ORANGE  GROVE  ( The  Old  Homestead), 88 

BAY  AND  PALM  (Detroit  Free  Press}, «...  89 

ON  POINT  OF  SPANISH  BAYONET, 89 

O  !  LILIES  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  (Atlanta  Constitution} 89 

A  FLORIDA  TWILIGHT  (A tlanta  Journal),  ...,.., 90 

NEW  MOON  ON  ST.  JOHN'S  (Jacksonville  Times-Union},   ....  90 

SWEETHEART  JANUARY  (Detroit  Free  Press}, 91 

ON  LAKE  MINNEHAHA  (Florida  Citizen}, 92 

FAREWELL  TO  LOCH  KATRINE  ( Orlando  Record}, 93 

THE  LADY  IN  THE  MOON  (Detroit  Free  Press}, 94 

IN  THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY  (Atlanta  Constitution) 94 

AN  UNSUNG  SONG, 95 

MY  DREAM  (Atlanta  Constitution}, 95 

"  MY  LOVB  FOR  YOU  is  LIKE  A  CANDLE  BURNING  " 

(Atlanta  Constitution}, ...  96 

LILIES  FOR  THE  BABY'S  GRAVE  (Atlanta  Constitution),     ....  97 

WELCOME,  BABY  MARGARET, 97 


CONTENTS. 


WITH  TERPSICHORE. 

PAGE 

THE  NATIONAL  DANCES  ( Waltz,  Florentine  Chanson), 

Detroit  Free  Press,  ...    98 

VESUVIENNE  (Atlanta  Journal), 98 

POLKA  (Atlanta  Journal), 99 

MAZOVRKA  (Atlanta  Journal), 100 

FISHER'S  HORNPIPE  (Atlanta  Journal), 101 

RAQUET  (Atlanta  Journal), 102 

WITH  THALIA. 

A  WORD  FOR  SAPPHO, 103 

JAMESTOWN  WEED'S  REVENGE  :  A  COMEDY  OF  Two  CONTINENTS,  104 

PRETTY  CAPRICE, 108 

BALLADE  OF  THE  LITTLE  CORNER  (Atlanta  Constitution),    .   .  .  109 
ALBOIN  AND  ROSAMOND  (Atlanta  Constitution), 112 

IN  ZION. 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH  (Atlanta  Constitution), 114 

"  WHEN  FIRST  I  ESSAY'D  ON  MY  UNTUTOR'D  LYRE," 115 

CHRIST  THE  LIVING  WATER  (Atlanta  Journal), 115 

To  DAY'S  GETHSEMANE  (Atlanta  Constitution) 117 

EASTER  ANTHEM  (Atlanta  Journal), 118 

THE  TREE  I  LOVE  (Atlanta  Constitution), 119 

KING  DAVID  DANCED, 119 

GOD  MAKETH  A  WAY, 121 

HYMN, 122 

JORDAN, 123 

IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  NORTH  GEORGIA. 

MIDNIGHT  ON  THE  BALD, 125 

CYNTHIA 126 

OLD  FATHER  CORN, 130 

SONG  OF  A  MOUNTAIN  MAIDEN, 131 

EYES  (To  Music), 132 


CONTENTS. 


MELODIES  IN  MINOR  KEY. 

PAGE 

ROSEMARY  AND  RUE  {Detroit  Free  Press), 134 

PERSIAN  SERENADE  (New  Orleans  Times- Democrat), 135 

RAIN  IN  MIDSUMMER  (Detroit  Free  Press) 136 

THE  SENSITIVE  VISITOR  (Century  Magazine}, •  .  .137 

THE  MEADOWLARK  (New  York  Sun), 137 

THE  PATH  FROM  ME  TO  THEE  THAT  LEADS,  138 

UNDER  THE  LAUREL  (New  Orleans  Times- Democrat),  .  .  .  .138 
BETWIXT  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  MAIN 

(New  Orleans  Times- Democrat)  .  .  .139 

FLORIDIAN  NOCTURNE  (Atlanta  Constitution) 139 

LOVE'S  WELCOMERS  (Detroit  Free  Press), 140 

BALLAD  OF  THE  BROKEN  TROTH 

(New  Orleans  Times- Democrat),  ...  141 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES, 142 

COMPROMISE  (Chicago  Literary  Life), 143 

FIRST  GRIEF  (Atlanta  Constitution), 144 

SONG  IN  ABSENCE  (Atlanta  Constitution), 145 

LAOMI  :  A  DIRGE, 146 

"  THOU  ART  TO  ME," 149 

AT  MOUNT  ENOTA'S  LAUREL'D  BASE  (Detroit  Free  Press),  .  ,  .150 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS. 

PAGE 

A  TEAR  (Atlanta  Journal) , 153 

PRETTY-BY-NIGHTS, 153 

A  LITTLE  BOY, 154 

A  LITTLE  MAID, 154 

LIFE'S  PARADOX  (Detroit  Free  Press), 155 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN,  I, 155 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN,  II, 156 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN,  III, 156 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN,  IV, 157 

LEIGH  HUNT,  MY  BIRD,  I  (Century  Magazine}, 158 

LEIGH  HUNT,  MY  BIRD,  II  (Century  Magazine) 158 

MY  SHAKESPEARE  (Chicago  Literary  Life), 159 

WORDSWORTH, 159 

MRS.  BROWNING  (Chicago  Literary  Life), 160 

BROWNING, 160 

TENNYSON  AND  LONGFELLOW, 161 

GRAY, 161 

LANIER  (Atlanta  Journal),      162 

"AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT,"     162 

COWPER'S  MARY, 163 

MILTON'S  DAUGHTERS, 163 

EMMA  HAHR  (Atlanta  Constitution), 164 

WASHINGTON, 164 

A  GEORGIA  GLOAMING  (Atlanta  Journal), 165 

A  FLORIDA  AFTERGLOW, 165 

CHRISTMAS  AT  LOCH  KATRINE, 166 

YALAHA-ON-ASTATULA, 166 

"ONCE  IN  MID-WINTER  WOODS  IN  FLORALAND" 

(N.  O.  Times-Democrat},  .   .  167 

"As  DAY  BY  DAY  I  SEEK  SOME  SYLVAN  ISLE," 167 

GRACE, 168 

HER  EYES  (Detroit  Free  Press), 169 


10  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HER  HAND  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 169 

"  SINCE  OUR  SOULS  CROSSED,  SWEET  SOUL" 

(New  Orleans  Times-Democrat),  .    .170 
A  SONG  TO  COOL  MY  LADY  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat),  .  170 

SLEEP,  I, 171 

SLEEP,  II, 171 

"!N  EVERY  HEART  SOME  NOBLE  NERVES  THERE  ARE,"     .  .   .172 
To  SONNET  BUILDERS:  A  MESSAGE, 172 

THE  PIERIDES. 

CLIO,  MELPOMENE  AND  CALLIOPE  (Atlanta  Journal], 173 

QUEEN  SOUTH  (Atlanta  Constitution), 173 

ATLANTA  (Atlanta  Journal), 174 

EDISON, 174 

A  STORM, 175 

A  CALM, 176 

COMPOSURE, 176 

POLYHYMNIA  AND  URANIA  (Atlanta  Journal) 177 

HESPER, 177 

THE  OPAL, 178 

ERATO  AND  EUTERPE  (Atlanta  Journal), 178 

LOVE, 179 

ROSETIMB  IN  WASHINGTON, 179 

ANTICIPATION, 180 

"SHE  HELD  LIFE'S  DULCIMER," 180 

"AND  EVERY  MORNING  AS  I  PASSED  HER  B&WER," 180 

"HAVE  YOU  A  RIGHT,  AT  FIRST  SHE  ASKED  HER  HEART,"  .   .  181 

"I  LOVE  You  So"  (Atlanta  Constitution} 182 

"  CAN  TIME,  THOU  ASK'ST,  MY  HEART  FROM  THINE  ESTRANGE,"  182 

"  EARTH  HATH  MOMENTS," 183 

"THE  PENDULUM  MUST  HAVE  THE  BACKWARD  SWING,"    ...  183 

SOME  DAY  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 184 

THALIA  AND  TERPSICHORE  (Atlanta  Journal), 185 

"WERE  I  A  ROSEVINE  IN  HER  GARDEN  GROWING" 

(Atlanta  Journal),  .   .   .185 

A  VIRGINIA  MOONSET, 186 

"MAY'ST  PEEL  ME  A  PEACH?" 186 


11 


PAGE 

MAM  AGGY,  I, 187 

MAM  AGGY,  II, 187 

THE  MINUET, 188 

THE  HEAVENLY  MUSE. 

INVOCATION  (Detroit  Free  Press), 189 

MIZPAH, 190 

"GoD  FIRST"  (New  Orleans  Times-Democrat), 190 

GRACE, 191 

"  WE  MAKE  MISTAKES,  AND  GOD  O'ERRULETH  THEM  " 

(Atlanta  Journal),  .   .  191 

BEATITUDE  THE  SECOND  (Atlanta  Constitution), 192 

IDA  ASH, 193 

PARABLES. 

THE  SOWER 194 

THE  WHEAT  AND  THE  TARES, 194 

THE  MUSTARD  SEED,  THE  LEAVEN,  AND  THE  GOODLY  PEARL,  195 

THE  TEN  TALENTS, 195 

THE  TEN  VIRGINS, 196 

THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN, 197 

THE  LOST  SHEEP, 197 

THE  UNMERCIFUL  SERVANT, 198 

THE  RICH  FOOL, 198 

THE  FIG  TREE  AND  ALL  THE  TREES, 199 

AT  TRUTH'S  DOOR  (Atlanta  Constitution), 199 

FAITH  AND  SUPERSTITION, 200 


ABRAHAM  (Atlanta  Constitution), 201 

JACOB,  "  "  201 

JOSEPH,  "  202 

MOSES,  "  "  202 

JOB,  "  "  203 

ISAIAH,  "  "  203 


12 


PAGE 

CHRIST,  (Atlanta  Constitution) 204 

JESUS,  "  "  205 

JOHN,  "  "  205 

PETER,  "  "  206 

PAUL,  "  "  206 

ISCARIOT,          "  "  207 

EVE, 207 

CAIN'S  WIFE, 208 

HAGAR 208 

SARAH, 209 

REBEKAH, 209 

RACHEL, 210 

RUTH  AND  NAOMI, 210 

VASHTI, 211 

DORCAS 211 

MIRIAM,  DEBORAH  AND  ANNA, 212 

MAGDALENE, 212 

MARY, 213 

IN  THE  CRUCIBLE  (Atlanta  Constitution),    . 213 

"  IN  THOUGHT  THE  SEVEN  GREAT  MOUNTS  I  VISITED,"    .   .   .  214 
"THERE  ARE  TEN  PRECIOUS  STREAMS  I  LOVE  TO  TRACE,".    .  214 

A  PSALM  OF  COMFORT, 215 

NARCISSUS, 215 

ANEMONE, 216 

L1  EN  VOL 

A  VISION  OF  ART 217 

MY  SONNETS, 218 


PRELUDE. 


PART  I.    "REST  HERE,  I^ITTLE  SONGS." 

A  home  for  my  poor  little  pilgrim  rhymes. 

Nestle  ye  here  with  your  weary  wings. 

For  many  moons,  and  in  many  climes, 

Ye  have  journey 'd,  and  brought  home  precious  things : 

Gold  for  bread — ah  !  that  was  sweet — 
On  bread  alone  man  cannot  live, 
Yet  day  by  day  must  we  entreat 
Our  Heavenly  Father  bread  to  give  ;— 

Bright  laurel  leaves — albeit  our  brow 
Reluctantly  to  wear  them  bends  ; 
And,  dearest  of  all  in  this  life  below, 
The  hearts  of  a  few  tried,  trusted  friends. 

And  so  I  have  built  you  a  beautiful  nest 
Of  the  trees  Father  planted  around  the  old  home, 
With  a  cedar  foundation,  and  bright  silver  dome, 
And  wall'd  it  with  pictures  of  those  I  love  best. 

Here  are  Father  and  Mother  and  fair  Sister  Ada, 
And  Brother  Piromis  (we  pet-nam'd  him  Pie — 
Which  teased  him,  but  he  couldn't  help  it,  poor  boy  !) 
And  Robert  the  Papa,  and  sweet  little  Cade,  O  ! 

And  "Grandmother  Dearest,"  my  best-beloved  friend, 
Who  gave  me  the  locket  to  wear  o'er  my  heart, 
And  the  Bible  to  bond  us  when  we  are  apart — 
And  I  know  she'll  be  faithful  to  me  e'en  to  the  end. 

And  "Popie"  the  precious,  and  gold-hearted  "Creagh," 
Cousin  Tishia,  who  makes  the  poetical  soups, 

13 


14  PRELUDE. 

And,  to  fill  out  this  loveliest  of  family  groups, 
Frances,  Mary,  and  Creagh  Bell,  darling  girl-trio. 

My  I^ady  of  ladies  (full-length,  hands  and  all— 
The  songs  tell  about  her).    And,  under  this  latch, 
My  "  Century  lovers  "  (they  said  'twas  our  match, 
And  upon  us  their  blessings  unceasingly  fall). 

I  thought  'twas  too  sweet  when  he  sent  her  "APART" 
(With  a  bunch  of  white  violets  pinn'd  on  it)  out  West. 
And  I  doubt  not  she  sat  with  it  press' d  to  her  heart 
For  an  hour  or  more.    ILove  like  this  must  be  blest. 

And  I  doubt  not  that  one  of  her  beautiful  long  locks 
She  clipt  for  him  then.     (This  is  under  the  rose, 
lyittle  Songs — this  is  something  to  hold  very  close — 
One  talks  very  freely  'way  down  in  one's  song-box.) 

Sweet  Anne  (we  married  her  too — she  who  fell 
From  the  moon  to  get  wed.)*    And  sad-eyed  Mary  Rex, 
Who  sings  by  the  sea.    My  biographers  six : 
Belle,  Annie  and  Mary,  Maude,  Mildred  and  MeLf 

Next  comes  my  good  Doctor,  from  whose  laboratory 
I  get  iron  tonic  and  nice  pepsin  pills,— 
Who  recommends  "changes"  and  trips  to  "  Tocco-ie," 
And  is  so  kind  and  modest  in  making  out  bills. 

Sweet  Etta,  the  wife,  with  the  deep  mother-heart— 
As  she  loves  "  Baby  Mary  "  so  do  I  love  iny  pets,— 
And  like  a  rare  jewel  this  little  maid  sits 
In  the  depths  of  my  Cabinet — a  triumph  of  Art. 

See  her  pure  little  face  peeping  up  from  the  box 
Into  Grandmother's  eyes,  which  look  down  from  the  cover, 
While  the  silver  and  gold  of  their  intertwined  locks 
Wind  all  'round  my  heartstrings,  for  I  am  their  lover 

*See  "  The  Lady  in  the  Moon"  page  94. 

f  Belle  K.  Abbott,  Annie  I^ogan  Anderson,  Maude  Andrews, 
Mary  E.  Bryan,  Mildred  Rutherford,  and  Mel  R.  Colquitt. 


PRELUDE.  15 

"Aunt  Lila  "  and  "  Annie  and  Tom  "  do  but  seem 
A  part  of  themselves,  so  to  have  them  is  right ; 
And  dear  blind  "  Aunt  Lizzie,"  with  such  inner  light 
Of  spirit  to  guide  her— and  blessed  "  Aunt  Em." 

Ah  !  my  two  charming  Sarahs — how  differently  charming  ! — 
One  chants  her  Te  Deum  and  rolls  out  her  dough 
To  perfection  !    The  other  just  rivets  you  thro' 
With  her  jewel-bright  eyes— but  with  no  aim  at  harming. 
Mrs.  Ornie,  with  the  face  like  a  vision  of  rest— 
A  Florida  lake  'neath  an  October  moon — 
Whose  mission  in  life  is  to  bring  heaven  down 
To  her  circle.    One  Lily  blooms  out  of  her  breast. 
Here  are  Corinne  the  gifted,  our  Cushman  of  Art, 
And  Emma  the  genius,  and  Emma  the  beauty, 
And  Emma  the  saucebox,  the  mix'd  tuttifrutti 
Of  sugars  and  spices,  by  turns  sweet  and  tart. 
And  Helen  the  nightingale,  Ella  the  queenly, 
Anita  the  skylark— and  last,  but  not  least, 
Leonora  the  learned,  who  descants  serenely 
In  Sanscrit  and  Browning,  our  classic  high-priest.* 
Now  my  far-famous  teachers.    Miss  Laura  the  pious. 
The  ponsassinorum  she  led  us  athwart, 
And  with  French  Verbs  and  logarithms  did  edify  us. 
But  now  the  poor  heathen  claims  most  of  her  heart. 
And  those  two  noble  Mallons  (sweet  be  their  repose  !) 
He  doubled  our  joys  and  divided  our  woes  ; 
She  the  "  Young  Cochin var  "  taught  us  how  to  recite 
The  "  Bells,"  and  the  "  Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To-night." 
(I  was  charm'd  when  she  told  me  "  Blind  Tom"  in  the  circus- 
scene 

Where  the  lady,  you  know,  is  wound  up  in  the  moccasin— 
Quite  gave  her  the  creeps.    So  the  music  did  me.) 
An  artist  must  be  realistic,  you  see. 

*  Corinne  Ruth  Stocker,  Emma  Hahr-Dobbs,  Emma  Mims 
Thompson,  Emma  Muse- Warren,  Helen  Knight,  Ella  M.  Powell, 
Anita  Henderson-McDaniel,  and  Leonora  Josephine  Beck. 


18  PRELUDE. 

That,  in  the  Criterion's  earnest  behalf, 

I  ask'd  him  to  sing  us  a  song.    Never  tarried 

His  answer— it  made  us  half  weep  and  half  laugh — 

"Twas  simply  :  "/  use' d  to  sing  songs,  but  1  married." 

Now  this  very  same  "  Gathering  Roses  "  he  lov'd  so 
Mr.  Baker  had  lately  return'd  in  a  huff. 
"  Just  so !  "    I  reflected,  "  here's  pointer  enough  : 
They  are  built  -vice  versa."    And  always  it  prov'd  so. 

Once  Mrs.  Frank  Leslie  wrote  such  a  kind  letter  — 
Which  for  "  The  Dead  Worker"  a  cheque  did  enclose, 
And  ask'd  me  for  tales.    I  replied,  I  knew  better — 
"  The  greatest  antithesis  to  poetry  is  prose."  * 

And  Lollie  Belle  "Wylie..  that  newspaper  artist, 
Did  so  kindly  usher  some  debutante  lyrics 
Into  "  Society,"  along  with  the  smartest  !— 
Pink-frockt,  and  bejewel'd  with  pure  panegyrics. 

See  my  faithful  song-guardians,  Frank  L.  and  Thad  !£., 
Who  rescued  my  manuscripts  from  the  bad  imps, 
And  managed  to  give  my  glad  proof-eye  a  glimpse, 
And  got  editorial  setting  for  me  ! 

"  Uncle  Remus,"  whose  spring  editorials  are  sweeter 

Than  half  the  spring  poems  that  lean  upon  metre. 

Who,  altho'  a  shirker  of  anapests,  O  ! 

Did  write  such  sweet  things  of  my  little  Po'  Jo'. 

Aye,  my  little  Po> Jo'  did  so  work  on  his  graces, 

He  ardently  proffer' d  me  one  of  his  locks 

Of  hair  to  enliven  my  precious  song-box, 

But  little  Clark  said  it  would  set  it  in  blazes ! 

Mr.  John  Temple  Graves  so  o'errated  our  fame, 

And  so  shock'd  Mrs.  Browning's  (in  the  old  Tribune  days  ; 

For  I  love  my  songs  "  purely,  as  men  turn  from  praise  ") 
^That  we  can't  face  him  here,  tho'  we'll  mention  his  name. 

Ah  !  that  old  Southern  gentleman,  General  Walker — 
"  That  modern  Sir  Galahad,"  that  round-table  talker, — 

*  Wordsworth. 


19 


And  unlike  my  "  Sensitive  Visitor"  (alack  !) 
This  gallant  horseman  is  sure  to  drive  back. 

They  marvelled  why  over  my  maiden  bed 
The  scarr'd  face  of  Angelo  hung  evermore, 
With  its  sorrow-sunk  eyes  bending  searchingly  o'er. 
"  lyest  I  grow  too  happy  in  singing,"  I  said. 

lyike  guardsmen  they  stand,  those  two  eyes  calling  Halt  I 
When  the  feet  of  my  song  touch  the  quicksands  of  pleasure. 
And  the  Major,  my  friend,  fills  this  masculine  measure. 
Every  song-box,  I  ween,  needs  a  good  pinch  of  salt. 

Brave  Elizabeth  Bisland,  whose  wee  Southern  boot 
Chased  her  pen  'round  the  globe  in  a  dizzy  pursuit, — 
But  Hypomene's  love-apple  dropp'd  on  her  track 
Atalanta  hath  lured  to  Arcadia  back. 

And  our  kind  Mrs.  Bryan,  whom  we  spared  to  the  north, 
With  her  tenderest  of  hearts  and  her  quickest  of  quills,— 
But  her  term  has  expired  now,  and  back  to  her  hearth 
We  have  called  her  to  rest  'midst  her  native  red  hills. 

And  brilliant  Maude  Andrews,  whose  poems  and  prose, 
As  luminous  and  warm  as  the  sunlight  that  glows 
In  her  hair  and  her  eyes,  cheer  our  hearths  till  her  "  other 
Self"  *  is  quite  lost  in  her  true  self,  poet-mother. 

And  sad-soul' d  Mel  Colquitt,  who  dives  to  the  deeps 

Of  life's  troubled  waters  and  brings  us  up  pearls 

As  lucid  and  pure  as  the  dewdrop  that  seeps 

To  its  heart  when  the  Night-blooming  Cereus  unfurls. 

Our  Georgia  crown-jewel,  immortal  I^anier, 

Melodious  Stanton,  and  that  rainbow- woman — 

That  beautiful,  passionate,  palpitant  human — 

Too  poised  for  a  meteor,  too  warm  for  a  star, 

Too  bold  for  a  flower — rare  Amelie  Rives  ! 

And  that  daughter  of  Pan,  who  seems  to  flee  from  us 

More  fast  than  we  follow— white- wing' d  Edith  Thomas, 

And  behind  her  a  white  trail  of  chastity  leaves. 

*  Referring  to  her  beautiful  poem,  "  My  Two  Selves." 


20  PRELUDE. 

And  gentle  Charles  Hubner,  beloved  of  Hayne, 

Who  laid  the  last  wreath  on  the  laureate's  brow, 

And  caught  the  last  strains  fr.om  his  harpstrings,  which  now 

He  sends  thro'  the  South  in  a  soothing  refrain. 

And  Dumas  the  gifted — that  offshoot  of  Poe, 
Whose  '•''Mockingbird'1''  echoes  the  "Raven's"  own  woe, 
And  whose '  "Dinner Horn'11  sounds  from  our  hill-tops. — And  ah! 
Here's  to  grey-hair'd  Judge  Bleckley,  our  poet-at-law. 

(I  can  never  be  thankful  enough  to  the  Judge 
For  carrying  my  love-lyrics  in  his  coat-pockets. 
Most  judges,  kept  busy  digesting  their  dockets, 
Or  docketing  their  digests,  would  call  suchlike  fudge. 

My  little  "  My  Love  for  You  is  Like  a  Candle 

Burning'1''  leapt  upward  and  gave  such  a  sputter, 

When  it  heard  he  had  sent  it  away  in  a  letter, 

That  the  stick  danced  and  all  but  run  off  with  the  handle !) 

Ah,  "Leigh  Hunt,  my  Bird  "—my  little  song-master ! 
Who  sits  in  his  swing  by  my  desk  all  the  day, 
And  trills  out  melodious  roundelays  faster 
Than  fancy  can  follow  or  passion  keep  sway. 

(He  was  so  precious  proud  when  he  sang  his  way  in 
That  Eden  of  songbirds,  the  Century  Magazine, 
He  must  needs  be  photo' d  ! — but  it  tried  the  poor  lens,  he 
So  friskt  his  head  side  to  side  in  his  sweet 'phrenzy!) 

Sweet  Shelley,  the  Sensitive ;  Keats,  his  twin-spirit 

(If  Leigh  Hunt,  my  bird,  they  might  only  have  known  !) — 

And  that  Portuguese  lover — my  idol,  my  own — 

That  best  part  of  Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Beloved  Longfellow  !  what  song-box  could  spare 
This  face  of  the  singer  of  life's  sweetest  psalm  ! 
So  benignant,  so  true.— 'Twere  as  if  the  pet  lamb 
Had  estrayed  from  the  fold — 'twere  the  one  vacant  chair. 

And  here  is  my  Tennyson — my  Father's  last  gift 
(On  my  birthday)  before  he  was  laid  to  his  rest — 


21 


Thro'  the  skies  of  our  grief  he  made  many  a  rift- 
Next  my  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  I  love  him  the  best. 

Ivike  these  oaks  that  he  loved  he  was  sturdy  aud  brave, 
My  Father — he  fought  with  his  arm  and  his  pen, 
And  he  died  for  his  loved  ones — this  gentlest  of  men — 
And  now  the  wild  heartsease  blows  over  his  grave. 

When  good  old  Zaccheus,  his  Master  to  see, 

The  sycamore  climbed,  he  left  his  foot-prints 

On  the  bark,  which  has  crinkled  and  curled  ever  since, 

So  I  thought,  and  I  named  it  my  Testament  Tree. 

Whoever  had  dream 'd  that  the  showy  dogwood 
Would  reveal  such  an  exquisite  grain  at  its  heart — 
Just  as  some  rustic  folks,  who  are  clever  and  good, 
Take  on  a  fine  polish  that  baffles  town  art. 

Ah  !  the  silver-leaved  poplar — my  rainy  day  tree, 
I  called  it,  because  in  my  times  of  repining, 
It  always  kept  turning  its  bright  side  to  me, 
I,ike  lyongfellow's  cloud  with  its  silvery  lining. 

The  crabapple  tree  always  filled  me  with  laughter, — 
Such  bitter  fruition  from  promise  so  sweet ! 
Two-faced,  like  some  pretty  people  you  meet— 
Their  smile  is  so  sweet,  you  forgive  the  bite  after. 

But,  alas,  the  wild  cherry — distillery  whence 
Flowed  the  red  current  of  innocent  wine. 
Neither  antis  nor  prohis,  in  days  of  lang  syne, 
It  was  patronized  freely  by  us  on  the  fence. 

Ah  !  I  mused  as  I  paused  there  solemnly, 
And  gazed  on  the  ghost  so  gray  and  stark, 
And  drew  out  my  blade  from  the  sapless  bark. 
So  all  earthly  pleasures  must  crumble  to  clay. 

And  the  great  spreading^— was  it  too  a  wraith?— 
It  had  seven  branches  ;  we  thought  each  a  heaven, 
And  we  swung  there  in  bliss  all  the  morning  and  even- 
Till  a  great  horned  devil-horse  upset  our  faith  ! 


20  PRELUDE. 

And  gentle  Charles  Hubner,  beloved  of  Hayne, 

Who  laid  the  last  wreath  on  the  laureate's  brow, 

And  caught  the  last  strains  fr,om  his  harpstrings,  which  now 

He  sends  thro'  the  South  in  a  soothing  refrain. 

And  Dumas  the  gifted — that  offshoot  of  Poe, 
Whose  "Mockingbird"  echoes  the  '•'•Raven's"  own  woe, 
And  whose '  "Dinner  Horn"1 '  sounds  from  our  hill-tops. — And  ah! 
Here's  to  grey-hair'd  Judge  Bleckley,  our  poet-at-law. 

(I  can  never  be  thankful  enough  to  the  Judge 
For  carrying  my  love-lyrics  in  his  coat-pockets. 
Most  judges,  kept  busy  digesting  their  dockets, 
Or  docketing  their  digests,  would  call  suchlike  fudge. 

My  little  "  My  Love  for  You  is  Like  a  Candle 

Burning'"  leapt  upward  and  gave  such  a  sputter, 

When  it  heard  he  had  sent  it  away  in  a  letter, 

That  the  stick  danced  and  all  but  run  off  with  the  handle !) 

Ah,  "Leigh  Hunt,  my  Bird"— my  little  song-master  I 
Who  sits  in  his  swing  by  my  desk  all  the  day, 
And  trills  out  melodious  roundelays  faster 
Than  fancy  can  follow  or  passion  keep  sway. 

(He  was  so  precious  proud  when  he  sang  his  way  in 
That  Eden  of  songbirds,  the  Century  Magazine, 
He  must  needs  be  photo' d  ! — but  it  tried  the  poor  lens,  he 
So  friskt  his  head  side  to  side  in  his  sweet  phrenzy!) 

Sweet  Shelley,  the  Sensitive ;  Keats,  his  twin-spirit 

(If  Leigh  Hunt,  my  bird,  they  might  only  have  known  !) — 

And  that  Portuguese  lover — my  idol,  my  own — 

That  best  part  of  Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Beloved  Longfellow  !  what  song-box  could  spare 
This  face  of  the  singer  of  life's  sweetest  psalm  ! 
So  benignant,  so  true. — 'Twere  as  if  the  pet  lamb 
Had  estrayed  from  the  fold — 'twere  the  one  vacant  chair. 

And  here  is  my  Tennyson — my  Father's  last  gift 
(On  my  birthday)  before  he  was  laid  to  his  rest— 


21 


Thro'  the  skies  of  our  grief  he  made  many  a  rift- 
Next  my  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  I  love  him  the  best. 

Ivike  these  oaks  that  he  loved  he  was  sturdy  and  brave, 
My  Father — he  fought  with  his  arm  and  his  pen, 
And  he  died  for  his  loved  ones — this  gentlest  of  men — 
And  now  the  wild  heartsease  blows  over  his  grave. 

When  good  old  Zaccheus,  his  Master  to  see, 

The  sycamore  climbed,  he  left  his  foot-prints 

On  the  bark,  which  has  crinkled  and  curled  ever  since, 

So  I  thought,  and  I  named  it  my  Testament  Tree. 

Whoever  had  dream'd  that  the  showy  dogwood 
Would  reveal  such  an  exquisite  grain  at  its  heart — 
Just  as  some  rustic  folks,  who  are  clever  and  good, 
Take  on  a  fine  polish  that  baffles  town  art. 

Ah  !  the  silver-leaved  J>oplar—  my  rainy  day  tree, 
I  called  it,  because  in  my  times  of  repining, 
It  always  kept  turning  its  bright  side  to  me, 
I^ike  I^ongfellow's  cloud  with  its  silvery  lining. 

The  crabapple  tree  always  filled  me  with  laughter,— 
Such  bitter  fruition  from  promise  so  sweet ! 
Two-faced,  like  some  pretty  people  you  meet — 
Their  smile  is  so  sweet,  you  forgive  the  bite  after. 

But,  alas,  the  wild  cherry — distillery  whence 
Flowed  the  red  current  of  innocent  wine. 
Neither  antis  nor  prohis,  in  days  of  lang  syne, 
It  was  patronized  freely  by  us  on  the  fence. 

Ah  !  I  mused  as  I  paused  there  solemnly, 
And  gazed  on  the  ghost  so  gray  and  stark, 
And  drew  out  my  blade  from  the  sapless  bark. 
So  all  earthly  pleasures  must  crumble  to  clay. 

And  the  great  spreading^— was  it  too  a  wraith?— 
It  had  seven  branches  ;  we  thought  each  a  heaven, 
And  we  swung  there  in  bliss  all  the  morning  and  even- 
Till  a  great  horned  devil-horse  upset  our  faith  ! 


22  PRELUDE. 

Mighty  meetings  were  held  in  that  noble  old  tree. 
There  the  neighborhood  youth  met  in  grand  federation — 
Unsectarian  we  were — every  creed,  every  nation — 
Jew,  Gentile  and  African,  fearless  and  free. 

I^ackaday  !  she  was  dead.    But  a  lively  offshoot — 
A  grandchild  perhaps  of  the  third  generation, 
Did  modestly  reach  me  a  handful  of  fruit — 
Which  set  memory  moving  in  dear  palpitation. 

And  what  did  I  do  in  return  for  her  grace  ? 

Why,  I  eagerly  basketed  all  of  her  fruit, 

Then  quietly  sliced  off  a  piece  of  her  face 

To  go  in  my  song-box.    She  smiled  and  was  mute. 

Perhaps  she  was  glad,  in  her  inmost  sap, 

To  be  polished,  and  baited  herself  for  the  trap. 

Poor  figtree  !  since  blighted  by  Truth,  her  remorse 

Has  refined  her  somewhat,  tho'  her  grain  is  still  coarse. 

As  I  stood  by  the  gate,  in  the  old  back  yard, 

I  saw  the  veritable  nut-dented  stone 

We  had  used  to  crack  walnuts  and  "  scaley  barks  "  on — 

And  the  struggle  to  keep  back  the  tears  was  hard. 

All  around  the  green  globe  has  the  glory  gone  forth 

Of  our  grand  Georgia  pines.    Both  Hayne  and  Lanier 

Have  sung  them  immortal.    This  little  splint  here, 

Is  more  unto  me  than  a  forestful  worth. 

It  was  pick'd  from  the  old-fashion 'd  kitchen  door-sill 

Where  sat  Mammy  Aggy,  once,  kneading  her  bread, 

With  a  snowy  bandanna  pinn'd  over  her  head — 

Poor  faithful  old  soul,  I  can  see  her  there  stilL 

It  was  she  who  when  war  raised  its  horrid  alarms 

Refugeed  thro'  the  flames  that  leapt  'round  the  door, 

Wrapp'd  me  safe  from  all  harm  in  her  honest  black  arms, 

And  cradled  me  there  till  the  struggle  was  o'er. 

Here  are  chips  fifty-seven  of  rare  vines  and  trees 

By  Major  Mims  planted  'round  lovely  "  Heartsease." 

Tea  Olive  and  Cypress,  Magnolia,  Pecan, 

And  imported  Evergreens  Australian. 


PRELUDE.  23 

Rubber  Tree,  Iron  Tree,  Jasmine,  Sweet  Bay, 
Water  Oak,  Gold  Tree,  the  "  White  Funeral  Tree," 
Wild  Peach,  and  Honeysuckle,  Boxwood,  Altfiea, 
(These  grains  do  but  give  one  a  polish'd  idea.) 

Here  the  Delaware  crosses  the  grape  Scuppcrnong  ; 
There  the  regal  Wisteria  lends  a  wee  prong ; 
And  behold  here  a  glimpse  of  that  rare  Mareschal  Neil 
That  into  my  lady's  south  casement  doth  steal. 

Nor  did  we  forget  that  superb  Trumpet  Flower 

That  flags  royal  welcome  in  entering  this  bower. 

Dear  "  Heartsease  ! "  beneath  the  cool  shade  of  your  trees 

How  many  a  heartache  hath  found  its  surcease. 

Behold  the  Times-Democrat,  Sun,  and  Free  Press 

Of  one  accord  meet  and  each  other  caress ; 

And  mirabile  dictu  !  the  Constitution  andjournal 

Inlaid  side  by  side  in  sweet  concord  eternal. 

A  slice  from  Thad  Horton's  big  chair  editorial, 

Baker's  pen,  Howell's  pencil,  cut  smoothly  in  half; 

And  here  Mr.  Gilder's  sweet  Century  memorial 

Is  mosaic' d  in,  with  his  rare  autograph. 

Ah  !  that  darling  wee  "  corner"  that  fetches  us  food — 

To  omit  it  were  basest  of  ingratitude  ; 

So  some  strips  from  this  dear/^z'fe  mignon  I  took 

To  corner  my  song-box  with,  just  for  good  luck. 

Rest  here,  little  songs  !  in  your  beautiful  nest ; 

It  was  you  brought  the  straws,  and  I  wove  them  with  love  I 

And  never  again  from  my  side  shall  you  rove, 

For  the  mother-love  always  is  surest  and  best. 

Rest  here,  little  songs,  'neath  your  gold-broider'd  covers, 

With  sweet  rainbow  ribbons  tied  true  lover-wise, 

While  jealously  o'er  you  the  mother-pride  hovers, 

And  where  no  hawk-like  critic  can  level  his  eyes. 

Rest  here,  little  songs  !    Your  sweet  images  roaming 

May  lodge  now  and  then  in  the  heart  of  a  friend, 

(Please  God  !)  but  no  more  from  my  casement  I'll  bend 

In  night-watches  to  list  for  your  precious  home-coming. 


24  PRELUDE. 

Rest  here,  little  songs !    It  was  Heaven  who  gave 
You  to  me,  and  I'll  live  with  you  close  to  my  heart, 
And  never  again  with  my  own  shall  I  part, 
Until  the  wild  heartsease  blows  over  my  grave. 

PART  II.    "ALAS,  LITTLE  SONGS." 

Alas  !  little  songs— there's  no  rest  for  the  just. 
My  friends  cried,  "A  book ! " — in  my  love  and  my  pity 
I  arose  in  the  nighttime  and — turned  you  to  dust. 
Alas  !  "we  have  here  no  continuing  city." 

In  the  urn  of  your  ashes  I  mingled  the  brine 

Of  my  grief  with  the  oil  of  my  sacrifice, 

And  I  watched  the  sweet  incense  to  Heaven  arise, 

And  I  thought  that  my  darlings  were  saved  by  that  sign. 

Saved,  from  the  hot  caldron  of  syndicate  steel, 
The  merciless  hammer,  the  file  and  the  wheel ; 
Saved  from  the  great  Press-Fiend's  insatiate  maw ; 
Saved  from  that  vain  battle  for  copyright  law. 

Saved  from  pirates.    Imagine  my  lambkins,  "  Po'  Jo'  " 
And  "  Jimson  Weed  "  deckt  out  in  cheap  paper-frocks  1 
Nay  !  better  these  ashes  in  this  precious  box, 
Than  the  dust  of  the  ages — and  spiderwebs,  O  ! 

Still  my  friends  cried, '  'A  book  ! ' '    Still  I  shook  a  sad  head— 
And  grieved  for  my  little  ones — made  a  low  moan 
In  the  night,  as  the  wine-press  I  trod  all  alone. 
My  children  were  buried — but  they  were  not  dead. 

They  came  back  to  me  as  I  toss'd  on  my  pillow. 
By  the  waters  of  Babylon  when  I  sat  down, 
Their  little  hands  run  o'er  my  harp  in  the  willow — 
They  haunted  me  everywhere  !— joy  had  flown. 

How  I  miss'd  their  dear  lispings,  their  sweet  cunning  airs, 
Their  cute  teasing  ways  when  they  clamber' d  for  rhymes, 
Their  little  heartaches,  and  their  clear  laughter  chimes— 
But  I  miss'd  them  most  nestling  about  me  at  prayers. 


PRELUDE.  25 

Their  very  false  steps  were  now  precious  to  me— 

For  at  times  they  seem'd  bold  and  their  wings  must  be  dipt, 

Or  out  of  my  power  complete  they  had  slipt — 

But  always  they  ventured  in  innocency. 

In  gentlest  obedience,  for  the  most  part, 
They  bent  to  my  wish— and  their  sweet  modest  air 
As  they  went  on  their  way,  was  remarked  everywhere. 
If  I  had  them  back  now  they  might  trample  my  heart  1 

My  obedient  anapests,  pretty  and  plump, 
Always  went  to  their  work  with  a  hop,  skip  and  jump. 
When  I  asked  them  to  sing  for  me,  each  little  miss 
Would  fall  quick  into  line,  with  a  measure  like  this. 

My  twin  spondees  sat  so  erect, 
In  church,  and  looked  so  orthodox, 
The  pastor  bless' d  them  on  their  locks, 
And  said  they  must  be  of  th'  elect. 

And  sometimes  (I  hold  it  a  capital  idea) 

My  best  little  dactyls  I  took  to  the  play. 

With  Blind  Tom  my  pets  were  quite  carried  away, 

And  they  went  into  lyrics  o'er  Mad'moiselle  Rhea. 

(She  asked  them  so  archly,  what  else  could  they  do  ?) 
And  "  sweet  Katie  Putnam  "  inspired  them  too. 
And  Corinne's  Po'  Jo'  quite  bewitch'd  them.    But  ah  ! 
Their  little  feet  leapt  when  they  heard  E)mma  Hahr. 

My  gentle  Jambs  !  ever  ready 

To  guide  your  brother's  foot  from  stumbling, 

How  oft  you  held  the  sonnet  steady, 

And  kept  hexameters  from  tumbling. 

Sadly  sometimes  would  I  wander  by  the  melancholy  shore, 
There  to  "scan"  my  pensive   trochees  to   the   plashing  of 

the  oar, 

Or  to  teach  them  from  shell-music  how  to  pitch  a  minor  key, 
Or  to  borrow  elegiacs  from  the  sea-wind's  revery. 
But  now,  older  grown,  some  must  needs  earn  their  salt, 
And  go  out  to  war  in  the  magazine  marts — 


26  PRELUDE. 

Perchance  to  return  to  me  empty  or  halt — 

Aye  me  !  'tis  the  proof-sheet  that  tries  mother-hearts. 

But  their  little  home  missions  return 'd  them  to  me, 
If  not  rich,  at  least  honored,  and  pure  from  world-stain, 
And  I  gathered  them  'round  the  dear  hearthstone  again 
To  share  my  sweet  cup  of  retiracy. 

"A  book"  said  my  friends,  and  in  accents  so  bold 
That  I  turn'd  very  white,  and  I  turn'd  very  chilly. 
Must  the  critics  come  down,  like  the  Syrians  of  old, 
Must  the  critics  swoop  down,  "like  a  wolf  on  the  fold," 
And  gobble  my  little  ones,  willy  or  nilly  ! 

Nay,  better  cremation — a  pure  holocaust, 
With  sighing  for  frankincense,  weeping  for  myrrh, 
While  witnessing  angels  their  wings  over-stir. — 
So  the  ashes  were  urn 'd— and  my  darlings  were  lost. 

Now  swift- wing' d  Repentance  beside  me  awaits. 

I  weep,  like  the  Peri  at  Paradise-Gates. 

She  points  to  the  walls  of  my  conscience,  with  "  Look! " 

In  God's  own  handwriting  I  read  there,  "A  book." 

Then  fall  I  to  my  knees  and  make  I  a  low  moan, 
And  cry  I,  "  Would  to  God  I  had  died  for  my  own  ! " 
But  our  Father  knows  best  how  to  answer  our  prayer. 
When  I  wake,  lo !  the  Angel  of  Memory  is  there. 

She  wipes  the  last  tear  from  my  grief-dazed  eyes, 
And  points  a  rainbow  in  my  storm-shaken  skies, 
And  leads  me,  so  gently,  thro'  twilights  and  dreams 
Past  the  borders  of  Lethe  to  Helicon  streams. 

Over  lyrical  meadows  she  measures  my  feet 

Where  they  first  learned  to  trip  ('tis  a  harder  task  now), 

And  in  bucolic  harness  she  makes  me  to  plow 

Old  fields  where  Pegasus  once  flew,  lightning-fleet. 

With  yardstick  and  tapeline  the  square  she  makes  plain 
Where  the  sonnet,  if  classical,  needs  must  dovetail 
Its  sextette  into  its  double  quatrain 
(To  miss  by  a  hair  were  ignobly  to  fail). 


27 


Oft  she  held  the  candle  while  I  swept  the  floor 
For  the  tenth  piece  of  silver,  and  when  its  true  ring 
She  heard,  the  nine  others  she  quickly  would  bring 
And  help  me  rejoice  while  I  counted  them  o'er. 

Thus  we  marshall'd  them  home,  foot  by  foot,  line  by  line, 
Oft  journeying  at  night  thro'  the  storm  and  the  cold 
To  bring  back  the  lost  hundredth  rhyme  to  the  fold, 
More  precious  than  all  of  the  ninety-and-nine. 

Some  few  still  elude  me.    Perhaps  it  is  well — 
Peradventure  I  leaned  on  them  more  than  was  wise ; 
Or  perchance  one  day  yet,  out  of  uninvoked  skies 
They  will  come  flu tt' ring  down  in  some  soft  twilight  spell. 


PART  III.—"  FAREWELL,  I^ITTLE  SONGS." 

Farewell,  little  songs  !  Tho'  you  leave  me  behind 

Sorrowful,  lonely,  at  least  for  a  time, 

There  is  comfort  in  this,  that  no  motive  unkind 

Has  inspired  you  with  thoughts  I  would  ever  unrhyme. 

Farewell,  little  songs  !   Sprinkle  dews  from  your  wings. 
If  for  life's  deeper  griefs  you  have  no  antidotes, 
You  at  least  may  breathe  balm  on  its  workaday  stings 
And  chase  with  your  music  its  discordant  notes. 

Farewell,  little  songs  !    Be  not  over-ambitious, 
Lest,  suddenly  soaring,  you  reel  down  the  air. 
(Remember  poor  Wolsey  !)    The  earth  is  still  precious. 
Seek,  too,  the  low  valleys  and  spread  solace  there. 

Now  if  Grandmother  Dearest  her  white  hands  will  spread 
O'er  my  darlings,  and  pour  from  her  heart's  golden  vial 
A  prayer  and  a  blessing,  no  fate  will  they  dread, 
As  they  go  forth  rejoicing  to  meet  every  trial. 


LYRICS. 


29 


LYRICS. 


TO  YOUTH, 
love  with  prayer ; 
It  is  a  holy  thing. 
No  dove  with  snowier  wing 
Fann'd  Eden  air. 

To  mortal  care 

Heaven's  whitest  angel,  Truth, 
Entrusted  it.    O  Youth  ! 

Touch  love  with  prayer. 

GATHERING  ROSES. 
Q  THE  deliciousness 
••    Of  the  fresh  season! 
Red  roses,  white  roses, 

Roses  past  reason ! 
Out  of  my  gardenful, 
Sweetheart !  the  sweetest  cull, 

Sweetest  for  posies — 
All  are  so  beautiful — 
Which  shall  my  sweetheart  cull, 

Sweetest  for  posies  ? — 
O  the  unspeakable, 
Untold  deliciousness, 

Gathering  roses ! 


32 


Frail,  odoriferous 

Sweet-briar' d  Eglantere ; 
Thorn-studded,  cluster-leav'd, 

Pink  Ottar  roses — 
Nay  !  Sweetheart,  have  a  care  ! 
Touch  not  that  Circean  snare, 
Cull  not  that  rose  for  me — 
She  will  be  pricking  thee, 

Making  my  posies. 
All  are  so  beautiful, — 

Which  shall  my  sweetheart  cull, 

Sweetest  for  posies  ? — 
O  the  untunable, 

Unsung  deliciousness, 

Gathering  roses ! 

Gold-hearted,  plush-petal' d 

Mareschal  Niel  roses — 
Almost  upon  your  stern 

The  scissors  she  closes  ; 
Moon-color' d,  moss-crested 

Nonpareil  roses — 
Nay  !  thou'rt  the  day-couch 

Where  Luna  reposes ; 
Virgin-immaculate 

Pale  climbing  roses — 
There  Mariposa 

Dreamily  dozes. 
Passionate  deep-center' d 

Jacqueminot  roses — 
No  redder,  no  rarer 

Blossom  uncloses. 


33 


All  are  so  beautiful, 
Which  shall  my  sweetheart  cull, 

Sweetest  for  posies  ? — 
O  the  undreamable, 
Undreamt  deliciousness, 

Gathering  roses ! 

Nay  !  little  sweetheart  mine, 

Not  with  the  scissors-tips 
Cull  we  the  sweetest  rose — 

Dear  !  it  blows  upon  thy  lips — 
Sweetest  rose  in  Paradise  ! 
Cruellest  rose  in  Paradise  ! 
And  this  moment,  stooping  down- 
So — I  cull  it  for  mine  own 
(Spite  of  thorns  within  thine  eyes]— 
Cull  me  a  whole  heartful 

Of  life's  rarest  posies — 
O  the  ineffable 

Eden-deliciousness, 

Gathering  roses ! 


84 


MAID  AND  MATRON. 

'THUS  a  maiden,  light  and  fair, 

To  a  dame  with  silver' d  hair, 
"  Tell  me  how  love  cometh." 


"Listen," 

Comes  reply,  while  tear-drops  glisten 
In  the  memory-melting  eyes. 
"  You  will  wake  one  morn  to  see 
A  bluer  blue  spread  o'er  the  skies 
Than  was  erewhile  wont  to  be, 
On  the  rose  a  redder  red, 
A  softer  down  upon  the  thistle, 
And  the  skylark  overhead 
Will  so  soft  a  matin  whistle*, 
You  will  wonder  why  before 
You  loved  not  to  listen  more. 
All  the  earth  and  all  the  air 
Will  seem  so  fresh,  will  seem  so  fair, 
You  will  chide  your  unbelieving  : 
*  Surely  life  is  worth  the  living  ! ' 
Work  for  heart  and  work  for  hand 
Will  spread  all  around  you.     And, 
Since  loving  one,  and  loving  much, 


LYRICS.  85 

Breeds  loving  many,  o'er  you  such 

A  sense  of  charity  will  steal 

That,  like  Schiller,  you  will  feel 

A  wish  to  rush'midst  its  alarms 

And  snatch  the  world  up  in  your  arms  ! 

Ah,  child  !  you  will  be  nearer  Heaven 

In  that  hour  than  it  is  given 

Unto  mortals  ere  to  be 

Again." 

The  maiden,  pensively 
This  time,  with  hand  press' d  to  her  brow : 
"  Now  that  you  have  told  me  how 
Cometh  love,"  she  said,  "  suppose 
That  you  tell  me  how  love  goes." 
Gravely  shook  the  silver' d  head. 
"  Child,  love  never  went,"  she  said. 


PO'  JO'. 

'ITHRO'  mossy  glade,  by  woodland  belt, 

Her  gentle  way  she  wendeth, 
In  the  calm  grace  of  her  dear  face 
That  peace  of  God  all  men  have  felt, 
But  no  man  understandeth. 
Soft !  she  hearkeneth  (never  to  mej!) — 
Sweetly  from  topmost  bough  o'  the  tree, 
Jo-re-ter,  jo-re  ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree! 


O,  rare  is  the  scent  of  the  clover  bloom, 

The  hovering  honey-bee  sucketh. 
The  blossom  most  fair  she  will  braid  in  her  hair, 
Nay  !  never  a  bloom  she  plucketh. 
For  the  earth  and  for  me  careth  not  she. 
Jo-re-ter y  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree! 

All  at  her  feet  lieth  meadow  sweet — 

Surely  her  eyes  she  lowereth  ! — 
Only  to  lift  to  a  gold-blue  rift 
Thro'  the  trees  to  the  sky  she  adoreth. 
For  the  earth  and  for  me  careth  not  she. 
Jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree! 

Now  at  a  turn  maidenhair-fern 

Feathereth  her  pathway  quaintly. 
Faeries  !  there  hidden  to  flaunt  them  when  bidden, 
Lie  low !  for  her  step  is  saintly. 
Never  her  eyes  she  lets  fall  from  the  skies — 
Or  only  so  low  as  yon  heaven-most  tree. 
Jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree  ! 

The  devil's  shoe-string  doth  its'bright  eyelet-ring 

Slip  to  entangle  her  treading ; 
The  broken  milkweed  poureth  out  its  pale  meed — 
All  to  her  foot's  unheeding. 

Not  even  the  daisy  she  noteth — why  me? 
Jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree  ! 


LYRICS.  37 

II. 

A   RAGGED  edge  of  wheatfield. 

Capering  wheat-bugs,  hoppers  green, 
Rotting  logs  where  lizards  play — 
That  feet  so  white  should  stray  this  way  ! 

Not  a  blossom  to  be  seen. 
Nay !  a  ragged  yellow  weed — 
Dog- fennel  can  it  be? 
Some  poor  straggler  gone  to  seed 
Or  ere  it  reach' d  maturity? 
Or  faded  golden-rod  left  o'er 
From  last  autumn's  treasure-store? — 
All  amongst  the  wheat  it  creepeth, 
Scrambleth  over  rocks  and  logs, 
Out  of  crevices  it  peepeth, 
In  the  glazy  branch-pool  bogs. 
Hang-dog  head, 
Buff  brown  eyes, 
Shameless  stalk,  a  pole  for  flies. 
Weed  unsightliest  'neath  the  skies  ! 

What  a  dazed,  dogged  air ! 

Desolately,  desperately 

Reaching,  dodging  everywhere ! 
Heaven-set  gaze  like  her's — aye  me  ! 
List  from  out  the  neighboring  tree, 
In  a  plaintive  minor  key, 

Jo-re  ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree! 

My  lady  pauseth — bendeth  low — 
Touch  so  pure  on  weed  so  gross ! — 
Tenderly,  as  'twere  a  rose. 


*8  LYRICS. 

Plucketh  it  and  saith,  "  Pd>  Jo' !  "— 
Plucketh  e'en  a  bunch  thereof, 
Presseth  it,  with  words  of  love, 
Words  of  pity  and  of  love, 
To  her  bosom — leaves  it  there, 
Quivering  with  its  tender  stir, 
As  it  were  a  posy  rare 
Sent  by  one  that  loveth  her. 
Whispereth  in  rhythm  low, 
Words  of  pity  and  of  love, 
Bendeth  trembling  lips  above, 
Kisseth  it,  and  saith,  "Po'  Jo'/" 
While  from  out  the  neighboring  tree 
Comes  in  shrillest  ecstasy, 

Jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree ! 

Po'  Jo' ! 

Scorn' d  by  all  within  thy  range. 
Ne'er  before  on  thee  did  dote 
Maiden  eyes  thus  lingeringly. 
Cattle  spurn  thee — even  the  goat 
Turns  his  choiceless  nose  from  thee. 
(Greediest  weeder  of  the  grange  !) 
At  thee  I've  heard  the  farmer  swear, 
Tangling  in  his  busy  share ; 
Thee  the  gardener's  daughter  scold, 
Crept  into  her  flower-fold — 
Nuisance  !  everywhere  he's  found  ! 
Slay  him  !  cumbereth  he  the  ground  ! 
Made  to  fall  beneath  the  hoe, 
And  yet — she  kisseth  him,  Po'  Jo' ! 


And  who  can  tell  if  this  Ishmael 
Of  the  woods  she  so  caresseth, 
In  her  heart  may  not  be  one  warm  spot 
For  me,  when  mine  confesseth — 
Slowly  homeward  wending  we  ? — 

Jo-re-ter,  Jo-re-ter,  jo-re-ter,  jo-ree! 

MARIPOSA. 

The  butterfly  is  in  Spanish  "  Mariposa."  The  derivation  of 
the  word  is  curious,  if  it  may  be  trusted,  and  one  who  has  a 
right  to  be  heard  in  the  matter  (Mahn  Elymol.  Forschengen, 
page  9)  advances  it  with  confidence.  Nothing  in  the  butterfly 
is  so  striking  as  the  alternations  of  restlessness  when  it  is  on  the 
wing,  and  then  of  perfect  quiet  when  it  has  lighted.  He 
divides  the  word  thus,  Man'  Posa  or  "  Sea  "  and  "  Rest,"  first 
the  restless  agitation  of  the  sea,  and  this  presently  exchanged 
for  perfect  repose,  and  finds  here  a  key  to  the  explanation  of  a 
word  which  has  hitherto  perplexed  all  etymologists. —  Trench, 
On  the  Study  of  Words. 

CTILL  your  winglet,  Mariposa  ! 

Flitting,  flutt'ring  Mariposa ! 
Some  one  told  me  that  the  first 
Butterfly  that  I  saw  burst 
Out  its  silky  chrysalis 
I  would  have  a  dress  like  his. 
Still  your  winglet,  that  I  may 
Of  your  tinsel  coat  survey 
Well  the  pattern  o'er  and  o'er. 
Sure  was  never  seen  afore 
Such  a  glorious  mantellette  ! — 
All  befreakt  with  gold  and  jet, 
Ruby-red  and  emerald  green, 


40 


Amber-ochre,  sapphirine, 
Satiny  and  velveteen — 
With  two  ample  owlet  eyes, 
Of  that  hue  that  monarchs  prize, 
A-peering  out  Minerva-wise. 
Why  !  if  I  like  that  were  dight 
Folks  were  awe-struck  at  the  sight, 
Admiring  on  what  mundane  mission 
Jove  had  sent  this  iris-vision. 

Still  your  winglet,  Mariposa  ! 

Gladsome,  giddy  Mariposa  ! — 

Had  not  thought  you  quite  so  simple  ! — 

There !  I've  caught  you  'neath  my  wimple. 

Now,  as  low  I  bend  mine  ear, 

Tell  me,  Flora's  minion,  where 

All  daylong  you've  been  a-flying — 

Into  what  soft  secrets  prying. 

As  you  woo'd  a  sip  of  honey 

Of  yon  blushing-red  Peony, 

Spied  you  her  forbidden  lover 

Crouching  near  her  in  the  clover  ? 
— When  you  kist  the  Morning  Glory, 

Did  she  tell  you  her  heart-story — 

Why  it  is  she  dies  so  soon — 

Why  can  never  see  the  moon  ? 
— Did  the  violet  tell  you  how 

Once  she  was  as  white  as  snow, 

Till  a  ruthless  Cupid's  dart 

Fell  and  pierced  her  to  the  heart, 

That  the  blood  did  freely  pour, 


41 


Purpling  her  forevermore  ? 
Wherefore  maidens  did,  to  shame  her 
Love-in-idleness  rename  her — 
Whence  it  is,  e'en  to  this  day 
She  doth  hang  her  head  alway. 

Did  pale  Hyacinth  recite 
His  sad  legend  ?  how  he  fell 
Neath  Apollo's  fatal  quoit — 
Whom  Apollo  lov'd  so  well ! — 
That  the  sweet  Laconian  youth 
All  his  guileless  blood  did  spill, 
Whence  to  mark  Apollo's  ruth, 
Sprang  a  waxen  snow-white  bloom — 
Emblem  meet  for  friendship's  tomb 
—Did  Calypso  Borealis 
Lure  you  to  her  iris  palace, 
Hold  you  there  with  honeyed  kisses, 
As  the  Ogygian  nymph,  Ulysses — 
Pledg'd  him  immortality 
If  beside  her  he  would  stay, 
But  the  Trojan  answer 'd,  Nay  ! — 
Loyal  to  Penelope, 
True  to  proud  Icarius'  daughter ; 
Home-returning  then,  he  caught  her 
Weaving  still  Laertes'  shroud, 
Warding  off  the  amorous  crowd. 

When  the  garden-poppy  spread 
Out  for  you  her  plushy  bed, 
All  so  crimson,  all  so  cozy, 
Can  you  not  to  wax  so  dozy 


42 


That  you  reason' d  it  were  best  to 
Stop  here  for  a  brief  siesta  ? — 
Which  e'en  until  moonrise  lasted — 
Several  golden  hours  wasted  ! 
Had  you  been  less  idiotic 
You  had  shunn'd  this  snare  narcotic. 
Did  you  learn  the  cause  mysterious 
Why  the  sweet  Night-blooming  Cereus 
Shuts  her  treasure  from  the  light, 
Opes  it  to  the  thieving  night  ? 
-Did  the  Flaxinella  bright 
With  its  ignis  fatuus  lure  you — 
Only  with  brown  dust  to  shower  you  ! 

Tell  me  why  sweet  Eglantere, 

With  her  golden  heart  laid  bare, 

And  her  simple  bib-and-tucker, 

Shows  such  temper  when  you  pluck  her ; 

While  the  city  Jacqueminots, 

With  their  frills  and  furbelows, 

And  their  artificial  blushing, 

And  their  hearts  all  gone  to  niching, 

Yield  smooth  arms  when  lovers  woo, 

Simply  and  without  ado. 

If  you  keep  company  with  the  shoddy, 
Haply  hoary  Polopody, 
Darwin's  pet,  "  the  old  fop  fern," 
Smirked  you  to  a  waltzing  turn. 
(Are  his  jewels  really  paste  ?) 
-Ah  !  saw  you  that  maiden  chaste, 
Sad-eyed  Anemone,  who  never, 


LYRICS.  43 

Since  jealous  Flora  banished  Zephyr, 
Opes  her  eyes,  except,  alas, 
To  rudely-blasting  Boreas  ? — 
Did  your  wing  so  gently  hover 
O'er  her,  teasing  Mariposa, 
That  she  fancied  her  lost  lover 
Had  come  back  and  did  unclose  her 
Tear-pink  eyelids  and  lay  bare 
Her  conscious  heart? — While  you,  I  dare 
Say  (confess  now !),  fled  to  flirt 
With  Black-eyed  Susan  malipert — 
Or  haply  down  the  stream  did  dart 
To  take  a  sail  with  Floating  Heart, 
Or  walked  into  the  parlor-bower 
Or  the  crafty  Spider  Flower 
(Served  you  right !),  or  got  your  wings 
Full  of  Prickly  Cactus  stings. 

When  the  Thistledown  you  blow, 
Just  so  many  hairs  as  cling, 
By  that  number  will  you  know 
What  the  year  your  fate  will  bring  ? 

Now,  what  o'  the  weather  ?    Could  you  tell 
From  "Shepherd's  Weatherglass,"  Pimper- 
Did  you  count  the  jewels  rare  [nel  ? 

Of  turquoise-beaded  Juniper  ? — 
Woodbine,  Meadowrue  and  Laurel, 
Toadflax,  Mayweed  and  Sheep  Sorrel, 
Boasting  Bladder-Champion — 
Tell  me  something  of  each  one 
Cyprus  Serge  and  Rattlebox, 


Fever-few  and  Gill  and  Phlox, 
Yellow  Primrose,  Daffodowndilly, 
Jamestown  Weed,  and  Butterfly  Lily, 
Devil's  Footstool,  Cupid's  Quiver, 
Lady  Fingers,  Live-for-ever, 
Scented  Blue-curls,  Bittersweet, 
Motherwort  and  Bouncing  Bet, 
Beechdrops,  Stargrass,  Golden  Club, 
Mouse-ear' d  Chick  weed,  and  Sweetshrub 
Tansy,  Scouring  Rush — and  O  ! 
I  trust  you  did  not  slight  JFb*  Jo\ 

Still  your  winglet,  Mariposa, 
Poor  imprison'd  Mariposa! 
What  I  do  is  from  conviction, 
From  an  artist's  sense  of  duty — 
Ah  !  but  you  would  be  a  beauty 
In  my  butterfly  collection. 
Know,  I  have  a  gilded  frame, 
Wherein  a  hundred  of  your  name 
(Mind  you  !  this  is  just  between  us) — 
Aye,  a  hundred  of  your  genus, 
Are  ranged  around,  as  on  a  rack, 
Each  with  a  pin  stuck  thro'  his  back 
(Tho'  that  was  put  there  just  to  keep 
Him  in  his  place — he  fell  asleep 
Steep 'd  in  a  drop  of  chloroform — 
I  could  not  do  him  lingering  harm). 
But  not  an  one  in  all  is  there 
With  you  in  beauty  can  compare ; 
And  in  the  centre  will  I  pin  you, 


45 


And  O  !  the  glory  I  will  win  you. 

For  folks  will  flock  from  far  and  near 

To  see  you,  Mariposa  dear, 

And,  seeing  you,  will  ne'er  forget 

To  sing  your  praise.   And  yet — and  yet — 

Somehow  I  have  no  heart  to-day 

To  do  it.    What  is  fame  to  thee? 

Man  alone,  with  earth-blind  eyes, 

Fancies,  when  beyond  the  skies, 

Bliss-embosom' d,  angel-crown' d, 

Glory's  clarion's  hollow  sound 

Can  pierce  the  ethereal  vault  profound 

And  into  his  heart  convey 

Joyance,  e'en  thro'  Heaven's  day. 

0  mortal  thought ! — away !  away ! 
Sweet,  idle,  giddy,  happy  thing  ! — 

1  love  thee  best  upon  the  wing. 

I  love  thee  well,  for  thou  dost  bring 
Soft  thoughts  of  first-love  and  of  spring. 

But  mind  you,  sweet  one  !  do  not  tell 
A  single  floweret  in  the  dell 
About  that  cruel,  gilded  frame — 
They  might  not  love  me  quite  the  same— ~ 
They  might  despise  me — and  then,  O ! 
Where  for  a  true  friend  could  I  go? 

Away  !  away  !  sweet  butterfly  ! — 
What !  Mariposa  !  dost  thou  lie 
So  still  ?    The  wimple's  lifted— see  !— 
Thou' rt  free  again.     — Ah!  could  it  be 
I  had  my  hand  too  closely  press'd — 


46 


I  thought  the  wimple  let  in  air. 
"Mart,"  "posa"  "sea"  and  "rest" — 
'  *  Posa, "  ' '  mari, " — ' '  posa ' ' there  ! 

REJECTED. 
W"ARM  from  the  heart,  one  winter's  morn, 

I  pour'd  a  tender-cadenc'd  song. 
As  mothers  over  their  first-born 
I  doting  o'er  it  hung. 

I  watch'd  each  little  cunning  turn 
And  thought,  "  Ah,  surely  never  yet 
(So  hearts  with  mother -rapture  burn) 
Were  sweeter  verses  set." 

And  with  a  glowing  mother-pride 
(Which  is  not  selfishness,  because 
It  loses  self  in  love)  I  sighed 
For  all  the  world's  applause. 

So  one  bright  morn  in  early  spring 
(Green  as  its  grass  the  memory!) 
My  little  song  went  journeying 
Toward  its  destiny. 

I  watch'd  each  mail  with  fluttering  heart, 
And  when  " Rejected"  came  in  brief, 
There  mixed  with  disappointment's  smart 
A  sigh  of  deep  relief. 

Thus  mother-birds  watch  fledglings  test 
Their  callow  wings,  and  half  in  pain, 
And  half  in  joy,  into  the  nest 
Receive  them  back  again. 


47 


Thou  wast  too  weak — thou  could' st  not  soar, 
My  fledgling  !  but  to  me  thou'rt  bless'd, 
And  I  but  love  thee  all  the  more 
Because  thou  can'st  not  quit  the  nest. 

HEAVEN'S  FLOOR. 
T  CANNOT  dream  that  Heaven's  floor 

Is  laid  with  gems  or  gold, 
For  one  would  be  to  the  angel's  feet 
Too  hard  and  one  too  cold ; 
But  O,  I  fancy  that  Heaven's  floor 
Is  carpeted  with  flowers, 
More  beautiful,  if  they  could  be  more, 
And  sweeter  than  even  ours. 

The  violet  I  know  is  there, 
In  soft  profusion  sown — 
Ah  !  it  were  Heaven  enough  for  me 
Were  violets  there  alone, — 
The  violet  to  the  woodland  dear, 
The  springtime's  minion  care, 
Unchang'd,  save  as  in  springtime  here 
It  blooms  perennial  there. 

For  I  believe  that  even  God 

Could  not  select  a  hue 

More  meet  to  brighten  heavenly  sod 

Than  our  own  violets  blue ; 

And  I  believe  that  even  God 

A  scent  could  not  distill 

More  meet  to  sweeten  heavenly  sod 

Than  our  own  violet's  smell. 


48 


The  lilac  and  the  heliotrope, 

The  pansy  and  the  pink, 

And  all  the  beauteous  buds  that  ope 

There  clusteringly  link 

About  the  innumerous  golden  founts 

And  heavenly  nectar  drink 

And  all  the  heavenly  tapestry 

With  various  patterns  prink. 

Nay  !  I  cannot  dream  that  Heaven's  floor 

Is  laid  with  gems  or  gold, 

For  one  would  be  to  the  angel's  feet 

Too  hard,  and  one  too  cold ; 

But  O,  I  fancy  that  Heaven's  floor 

Is  carpeted  with  flowers, 

More  beautiful,  if  they  could  be  more, 

And  sweeter  than  even  ours. 

AT  SUNSET. 

TRIS  hath  emptied 

Her  boxful  of  dyes 
Pell-mell  into 
The  Western  skies. 
Lo !  what  a  passion 
Of  crimson  and  blue —  * 
Patches  of  cameo 
Shimmering  thro' — 
Long  cold  strata 
Of  saffron  sheen — 
Pillows  of  eiderdown 
Bulging  between — 
Meet  for  the  slumber 
Of  seraphs,  I  ween. 


LYRICS.  49 


Come  with  me,  darling ! — 
Fling  down  your  book — 
Turn  to  the  westward — 
Hush,  and  look ! 

Which  of  those  tints 

Would  I  choose  for  a  dress  ? 

Really,  'tis  hard 

To  select,  I  confess. 

You  know,  like  the  violets, 

I'm  partial  to  blue — 

Yes,  yes,  I  would  choose 

That  ineffable  hue 

The  poets  call  azure — 

Come  now,  wouldn't  you  ? 

I'm  sure  it  was  caught 

From  an  angel's  eyes 

One  time  as  she  flutter'd 

Down  from  the  skies — 

And  that  red  from  her  lips  ! — 

And  that  white  from  her  wings  !— 

And  that  gold  from  her  crown — 

Or  her  harpsichord  strings ! — 

And  O  !  that  ineffable 

Cameo-flush 

Was  s natch 'd  from  her — 

Darling,  do  angels  blush  ? 

But  there  !  don't  answer  me — 

Look,  and  hush. 


50 


SPRINGSONG. 

T  LOVE  you.     I  know  it 
Because  the  birds  sing 

Gladlier  this  springtime 

Than  last  time  o'  spring  ; 

The  scent  of  the  lilac 

That  blooms  at  my  door 

Is  sweeter  and  subtler 

Than  ever  before. 

The  breezes  are  balmier 

That  come  from  the  dell, 

And  the  grasses  are  greener 

That  carpet  the  fell, 

The  roses  are  redder, 

The  bluebells  are  bluer, 

The  white  of  the  lily 

More  virginly  pure, 

The  pansy  more  royal, 

The  jonquil  more  yellow, 

The  sunset  more  gorgeous, 

The  moonbeam  more  mellow. 
By  the  green  earth  around  you,  the  blue  skies  above 

you, 
I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you. 

II. 

You  love  me.     I  know  it 
Because  in  your  sight 
The  sun  might  go  out 
And  I  should  not  lack  light, 
And  e'en  if  it  were  to, 
Not  leaving  a  spark, 


LYRICS.  51 

I  could  feel  my  way  to 

Your  true  heart  in  the  dark. 

You  love  me.     I  know  it 

Because  in  my  breast 

In  your  absence  there  dwells 

A  delicious  unrest — 

Which  tho'  to-day  piercing 

Exquisitely  keen, 

I  would  not  exchange 

For  the  crown  of  a  queen, 

The  bay  of  a  Sappho, 

The  robe  of  a  Dean — 

Nor  for  all  the  raised  splendors 

The  oceans  between. 

By  the  green  world  around  me,  the  blue  skies  above  me, 
You  love  me,  you  love  me,  you  love  me,  you  love  me. 

LOVE'S  FAITH. 

TF  one  should  come  and  tell  me  that  the  birds 

Had  lost  their  voices  ;  that  the  flowers  no  more 
Gave  forth  soft  odors ;  that  for  lack  of  dew 
The  grass  blades  droopt  at  dawntime ;  that  the  pearls 
Had  left  the  ocean's  bed,  the  sands  its  shore ; 
That  snow  from  winter  had  obtain'd  divorce 
And  lay  in  summer's  passionate  embrace ; 
That  frost  and  fruitage  had  congenial  grown  ; 
That  the  "  Lost  Sister  "  of  the  Pleiades 
Had  reappeared  in  Taurus  ;  that  the  sun 
Had  wheel'd  his  golden  chariot  to  the  North— 
I  might  believe  him.     But  if  one  should  come 
And  tell  me  you  were  false — why,  I  should  stand 
With  folded  arms  and  dart  through  him  a  glance 


52  LYRICS. 

So  keenly  edg'd  with  scornful  disbelief, 
That  back  he  would  recoil,  like  April  clouds 
Before  the  advancing  sun,  and  call  upon 
The  mantle  of  his  shame  to  cover  him. 

A  DAY  IN  WINTER. 
TJOW  could  one  live  thro*  a  day  like  this, 

Sweet !  were  one  not  with  his  books,  or  in  love  ? 
I  am  both — I  am  happy — with  that  dear  bliss 
Of  lovers  who  have  no  faith  to  prove, 
Of  readers  who  have  no  task  for  heeding, 
But  read  from  the  sheer  sweet  love  of  reading. 

The  day  is  dead,  and  the  clouds  hang  low, 
And  the  winds  are  weeping  a  dirge — what  tho'  ? 
My  life  is  full — in  my  heart  I  know 
'Tis  only  distance  keepeth  the  kiss 

On  thy  lips  from  mine, 

On  my  lips  from  thine. 
No  task  to  heed,  no  faith  to  prove, — 
Ah  !  how  could  one  live  thro'  a  day  like  this, 
Sweet !  were  not  one  with  his  books  or  in  love. 

APART. 

QUT  on  a  leafless  prairie,  where 

No  song  of  bird  makes  glad  the  air, 
No  hue  of  flower  brings  to  the  eyes 
Outward  glimpse  of  Paradise — 
A  thousand  miles  and  a  half  away 
My  Lady  is  in  love  to-day. 

All  thro'  her  heart  are  joy-bells  ringing, 
All  thro'  her  mind  sweet  fancies  swinging, 


53 


All  thro*  her  soul  are  skylarks  singing, 

For  every  new  southwind  is  bringing 

Tidings  glad  of  her  true  lover, 

And  kisses  bridge  the  distance  over. 

Lips  to  lips  and  heart  to  heart, 

A  thousand  miles  and  a  half  apart. 

MOONRISE  SERENADE. 
MOONR1SE.     And  a  mellow  sheen 

All  the  slumbrous  hills  is  steeping. 
Wake,  my  sweet  one,  nor  be  sleeping 
Thro'  sweet  Cynthia's  softest  phaze — 
Wake  and  rise  and  swiftly  glide 
To  thy  lattice,  sweet,  for  O  ! 
One  who  wooes  thee  for  his  bride 
Sigheth  here  below. 

I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 
My  heart,  I  must  confess, 
Can  no  more  love  thee  more 
Than  it  can  love  thee  less. 

Moonrise.     Thro'  the  casement-blind 
Lo,  the  golden  lovelight  streaming — 
Lady,  lady,  past  my  dreaming, 
Thou  art  kind,  most  kind. 

He  who  heard  thy  garment  glide 
Swiftly  o'er  the  happy  floor, 
He  who  woo'd  thee  for  his  bride 
Sigheth  now  no  more. 

I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 
My  heart,  O  happiness  ! 
Can  never  love  thee  more, 
Need  never  love  thee  less. 


54 


HER  WORDS. 


TF  her  silence  is  golden, 

What  then  are  her  words  ? 

Something  purer  than  gold, 
Something  sweeter  than  music  of  birds 

Longtime  withholden. 

Diamonds  ?  Nay  I  diamonds  are  glittering  and  cold. 
Rubies  ?  Nay !  rubies  are  brilliant  and  bold. 
Opals  ?  Nay !  opals  are  fickle,  of  old. 

What  then  are  her  words, 

Since  her  silence  is  golden  ? 

Something  purer  than  gold, 

Something  than  diamonds  less  glitt'ring  and  cold, 
Something  than  rubies  less  brilliant  and  bold, 
Than  opals,  more  true — something  not  to  be  told 

Are  her  words. 

Something  safe  down  in  the  heart  to  enfold — 
Something  sweeter  than  music  of  birds 

Longtime  withholden. 

HER  KISSES. 
PENTLY  as  the  mists  of  even 

On  the  crystal  casement  settle, 
Gently  as  the  dews  of  heaven 
Cluster  round  the  rose's  petal, 
Softly  as  the  harvest  moonbeam 
Thro'  the  midnight  stillness  slips, 
Falls  the  kiss  of  her  who  loves  me 
On  my  cheek  and  on  my  lips. 

Dearer  than  the  blue  to  heaven, 
Than  the  red  unto  the  rose  is, 


LYRICS.  55 

Dearer  than  the  stars  to  even, 
Than  the  perfume  to  the  posies, 
Precious  as  the  rose  to  June-time, 
As  the  Sabbath  to  the  week, 
Is  the  kiss  of  her  who  loves  me 
Falling  on  my  lips  and  cheek. 

A  MISSION  OF  CHARITY. 
"TWAS  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  day 

That  foretaste  of  June  had  brought  to  May. 
With  ruthless  eye  the  failing  sun 
Glanced  askance  at  the  havoc  he'd  done : 
For  the  buff-hearted  daisies  that  sprinkled  the  field 
With  joyance  that  morning  had  sicken'd  and  reel'd, 
Dazed  by  the  glare  of  his  pitiless  glance, 
And  the  leaves  on  the  trees  had  forgotten  to  dance, 
But  hung  mouse-still,  and  gazed  below 
Where  the  runlet  was  almost  too  lazy  to  flow. 

And  a  sick  girl  lay  in  her  dying  chair 
And  prayed  for  a  breath  of  evening  air 
To  enter  her  casement  and  fan  her  cheek 
Where  consumption  fed  with  envenom'd  beak. 
"  O,  that  a  breeze  would  this  way  wing 
And  ease  to  my  raging  temples  bring," 
She  sigh'd. 

And  away  in  his  western  cave 
Far,  far  over  the  ocean  wave, 
A  soft-voic'd  Zephyr,  y£6lus'  child, 
Gentle  of  heart,  and  brave  as  mild, 
Heard  this  wail,  and  he  said  to  himself, 
"  Now,  if  a  little  sylph-like  elf 
Like  me  might  answer  that  plaintive  cry, 


56  LYRICS. 

I'd  slip  thro'  a  chink,  and  away  I'd  fly  ! — 
And  why  not  I  ?'' — as  the  voice  was  heard 
A  second  time.     So,  with  never  a  word, 
On  a  sweet  mission  of  charity  bent, 
He  slipt  thro*  a  chink  and  away  he  went ! 

Now  a  ship  was  due  o'er  the  sea  that  night, 

But  just  ere  the  harbor  loom'd  in  sight, 

The  wind  at  her  mast  began  to  fail 

And  flat  and  limp  hung  her  every  sail, 

And  the  captain  on  the  foredeck  trod, 

With  his  hands  to  his  brow  and  he  said,  "  My  God ! 

Before  I  can  reach  her  my  child  will  die." 

Just  then  the  Zephyr  came  skimming  by — 

He  heard  this  wail,  in  a  happy  hour, 

And  swell'd  to  the  utmost  in  his  power. 

"What  little  I  can  do  shall  be  done," — 

And  he  lodg'd  in  the  mast,  and  the  ship  moved  on — 

Till  safe  at  last  into  harbor  steer' d — 

Then  he  slipt  from  the  sail  and  leeward  veered. 

Now  over  the  fields  as  he  chances  to  pass 

He  lightly  breathes  on  the  blades  of  grass — 

They  nod  their  heads  with  conscious  thanks 

And  toss  their  arms  in  a  thousand  pranks. 

He  lifts  the  daisies  out  of  their  trance 

And  sprays  them  with  dews  till  their  bright  eyes  dance. 

He  sets  the  leaves  on  the  trees  a-quiver, 

And  hastens  the  runlet  on  to  the  river, — 

And  all  this  time  he  is  speeding  to  where 

The  sick  girl  lies  in  her  dying  chair. 

— Now  he  enters  the  casement  in  time  to  see 

Two  strong  arms  clasp  her  tenderly — 


LYRICS.  57 

"  My  Father  !  my  Father  !  "     "  My  darling  girl ! " 
And  the  Zephyr  slips  in  and  lifts  a  curl, 
A  golden  curl,  from  a  crimson  pool, 
And  he  kisses  the  raging  temples  cool, 
And  he  slips  the  soul  from  the  smiling  clay 
And  unto  an  angel  bears  it  away. 

Children,  this  carries  a  lesson  for  you — 

See  the  good  even  a  Zephyr  can  do. 

He  went  on  an  humble  mission  bent, 

But  on  doing  good  were  his  thoughts  intent. 

And  see  what  Providence  put  in  his  path : 

He  reviv'd  the  daisy  with  gentle  dew-bath, 

He  gladden'd  the  leaflet,  he  dimpled  the  water, ' 

He  claspt  to  the  heart  of  his  dying  daughter 

A  fond  old  man — and,  above  all  this, 

He  wafted  a  soul  to  the  climes  of  bliss. 

BLIND  TOM. 
I. 

LTUSH  !   hearken  !   'tis  the  tinkling  of  an  elfland 

tambourine, 

A  tintinnabulary  sweep  of  faerie  finger-tips. 
— Now  it  soars  in  silver  treble — now  it  sinks  and, 

diving,  dips 

Down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  deeps  of  sound, 
I  ween. 

Hear  it  bound  and  hasten 
Down  its  diapason, 

Like  a  mighty  current  down  a  deep  ravine ; 
Upward  lightly  tripping, 
Now,  like  children  skipping, 
Tripping,  skipping,  slipping  o'er  a  bowling-green. 


58  LYRICS. 

'Tis  ALolus  sighing  hither, 
Flutt'ring  softly  as  a  feather 

From  the  hovering  wing  of  Nox. 
All  my  senses  he  entices 
With  his  oriental  spices  [locks. 

As  his  soft  mesmeric  fingers  wandlike  overpass  my 
Drinking  in  his  breath  narcotic, 
Yielding  to  his  touch  hypnotic, 

I  am  sinking — I  am  drifting — I  have  reached  the 
Lethe  docks. 

II. 

Was  I  sleeping  ? — 
Some  one  weeping 

From  the  cypress  hedge  is  creeping — 
'Tis  some  isolated  spirit  seeking  redress  for  its  wrongs. 
— Nay  !  some  madman — hear  the  gnashing 
Of  his  teeth,  and  see  the  flashing 
Of  his  eyes! — some  madman,  certes,  who  has  wrench'd 
his  prison-thongs. 

Hist  how  his  uncanny  laughter 
Echoes  from  each  startled  rafter — 

Now,  as  if  possess'd  of  legions  from  infernal  regions,  he 
Shrieking  goes  around  the  gable, 
Like  the  banshee  in  the  fable, 

With  a  wierd  reiteration  of  an  eldritch  ecstasy. 

Was  I  dreaming  ? 

Moonlight  streaming 

O'er  me  sets  my  opal  gleaming —        [me  free — 
'Tis  some  mystic  incantation  from  that  spell  hath  set 

All  is  calm  and  still  and  sober 

As  a  moonbeam  in  October —  [sea. 

As  a  midnight  moonbeam  resting  on  a  mid-October 


59 


III. 

Hurrah  !  make  room  for  Jumbo  ! — You  gamins  !  clear 

the  track  there ! 

There's  a  cage  of  mad  hyenas — I  say !  you'd  best 
step  back  there  ! 

Tumpty !  tumpty,  here  he  comes  ! — 
Humpty  Dumpty,  with  his  thumbs 

Stuck  aside  his  nose. 
— There's  a  lady  on  a  chariot 
With  a  snake  (how  can  she  carry  it !) 

Wound  from  head  to  toes. 

Whick-whack  !  goes  the  whip  of  the  ring-master. 
Round,  round  go  the  ponies — faster — faster ! 
See  her  whirl ! — 
The  circus-girl, 

Round  and  round  in  giddy  gyres. 
Thro'  the  ring 
Watch  her  spring ! — 
A  salamander  wreathed  in  fires. 
Now  the  clown 
Assists  her  down. 
Does  he  smile,  or  does  he  frown  ? 
Hip  !  hurrah  !  stand  aback  ! 
Humpty's  turn  now — clear  the  track  ! 
Whick-whack  !  goes  the  whip  of  the  ring-master — 
Round,  round  goes  old  Humpty — faster — faster — 
See  him  stumble, 
Watch  him  tumble ! — 
In  the  sawdust  roll  and  fumble  ! 
Now  he  faces  his  disaster — 

Is  he  proud,  or  is  he  humble  ? 
Does  he  grin,  or  does  he  grumble  ? 


60  LYRICS. 

Hush  !  look  up,  and  still  your  laughter, 
Shut  your  eyes,  and  hold  your  breath ! — 
There's  a  woman  from  the  rafter 
(Samson  nerve  her ! 
God  preserve  her !) 
Hanging,  dangling  by  her  teeth ! 

IV. 

'Tis  a  burial  in  mid-ocean 

In  midwinter.     With  emotion 

Round  the  corpse  the  crew  are  crowding, 

Round  the  corpse  that  they  are  shrouding 

In  the  snowy  winding-sheet. 
'Tis  the  priest  that  they  are  shrouding 

In  the  snowy  winding- sheet. 
This  one  chants  Ave  Marias, 
That  one  counts  her  beads  by  tears, 
Some  embalm  the  silver  hairs, 

Others  kneel  and  kiss  the  feet. 
One — perhaps  his  mother — tries 
To  pray  aloud — but  drops  her  eyes, 
And  lifts  her  empty  arms  aloft  in  voiceless  agony. 

— Hush  I  O  hearken  1  Do  I  dream  ? 

Have  I  cross' d  the  Jordan  stream  ? 

Seraph  voices,  mingling  soft, 

Bear  my  ravished  spirit  aloft — 

Upward,  upward  to  the  sky. 

I  close  mine  eyes — a  sense  of  Heaven  steals  o'er  me. 
Silence  profound  a  moment — then  a  thunder 
Of  wild  applause.     And  lo  !  that  sable  wonder, 
Blind  Tom,  the  genius,  sits  and  blinks  before  me. 


61 


THE  DEAD  WORKER. 

DOOR  hands !  fold  them  over  her  breast — 

So  hard,  so  brown,  so  cold — 

They  have  done  their  work  and  have  won  their  rest, 
Tho'  they  won  no  gold. 

Theirs  was  a  battle  for  bread, 

How  they  struggled  and  grappled  and  bled! 

Poor  hands  ! — lift  them  gently,  for  they 
Once  lay  in  a  mother's  breast, 
All  dimpled  and  pink,  and  cosily 
As  birds  in  a  nest, 

And  a  mother's  heart  once  leapt 

As  into  her  bosom  they  crept. 

Poor  hands !  they  have  never  a  ring, 

But  a  mark  where  a  ring  has  been — 

It  was  all  that  she  had  to  remind  her  of  spring, 

But,  to  save  them  from  sin, 

She  pawn'd  it — and  so  much  of  gold 

Never  again  did  they  hold. 

Poor  hands  !  give  them  flowers  to  carry 

Down  into  the  grave,  for  they 

Were  too  work-worn  and  too  world-weary 

To  pause  by  the  way 

And  pluck  them.     Bring  lilies  and  roses 
And  fill  the  stiff  fingers  with  posies. 

Poor  feet !  when  the  way  was  high 

And  stony  and  nettle-strewn, 

We  pass'd  them  by  with  never  a  sigh 

For  the  blood-prints  under  the  moon. 

Now  that  the  life-blood  is  froze, 
Bring  the  warm  gaiters  and  hose. 


62  LYRICS. 

Poor  eyes  !  close  them  to — how  they  stare  ! 
— Nay  !  place  no  gold  on  that  brow — 
It  was  lack  of  that  made  the  furrows  there — 
She  needs  none  now. 

She  goes  to  a  mansion  whose  floor 

Is  paved  with  the  costliest  ore. 

Poor  eyes  !  no  leisure  they  had 

To  gaze  up  into  the  sky 

And  see  if  'twas  blue,  as  the  poets  said — 

But  now  they  see ; 

To-day  they  are  not  so  dim 

But  that  they  have  open'd  on  Him. 

UNDER  VENUS. 
TTNDER  the  sun 

There  is  never  a  blessing  for  which   I  thank 

Heaven 

As  the  power  to  love  you  to  me  has  been  given — 
Never  an  one. 

Fate  may  deny  me 

The  luxury  of  sailing  behind  dappled  greys 
In  a  plush-cushion'd  coach,  and  in  ten  thousand  ways, 

Fortune  may  try  me. 
But  who  shall  dare  clip 

The  wings  of  my  bliss  when  I  think  of  the  day 
My  cheek  grew  as  red  as  a  rosebush  in  May 

'Neath  the  warmth  of  your  lip. 
Gold,  gaudy  gold  ! 

If  great  glistering  heaps  lay  piled  at  my  feet, 
I  would  not  loose  your  warm  hand  to  garner  them, 
Sweet ! 

— And  let  it  grow  cold. 


Fame,  bubble  fame ! 

The  hill-tops  might  clarion  me  unto  the  skies, 
And  the  skies  echo  back,  and  I'd  not  lift  mine  eyes — 
But  when  you  breathe  my  name — 

Life  is  too  fleet ! 

The  costliest  sceptre  that  sparkles,  mine  own, 
Could  never  allure  me  to  rise  to  its  throne 
From  mine  at  your  feet. 

Distance  between  us 

May  widen  with  years,  but  while  the  blue  sky 
Arches  over  us,  darling,  I'll  love  you.  for  I 
Was  born  under  Venus. 

LOVE  AND  FAME. 

TF  I  might  focus  the  combined  power 
Of  all  the  poets,  lens-like,  on  this  hour, 
And  pour  this  page  along 
A  lofty  epic  song 
That  with  immortal  laurels  would  mine  envied  name 

endower, 
And  'round  me  all  the  garner'd  wealth  of  all  the 

nations  shower ; 

And  if  I  might,  with  like  endeavor,  sing 
A  simple  love-lay  that  to  thee  would  bring 
Knowledge  of  what  thou  art 
Unto  my  life  and  heart, — 
Unwavering  would   I   seize  the  lyre  and  brush  the 

Euterpean  string, 

And  Calliope's   trumpet  to  the  four  winds  would  I 
fling. 


64 


LOVE  HYMN. 

CHINE,  shine,  O  Sun  !  your  ample  urn 

With  all  its  golden  beams  o'erturn, 
Till  turret-top  and  tree-top  burn 
With  amber  glory. 

Sing,  sing,  ye  birds  !  with  quavering  trill 
The  palpitating  ether  fill, 
Till  every  quivering  leaflet  thrill 

With  my  glad  story. 
Yes,  tune  your  merriest  roundelay, 
For  O  !  my  love  will  come  to-day. 

Blow,  blow,  ye  breezes  !  thro*  the  dell — 

Ye  seaside  zephyrs  !  seek  the  fell 

And  there  my  happy  secret  tell 

To  streams  and  flowers. 

Play,  play,  ye  fountains  !  send  on  high 

Your  diamonds  till  they  dint  the  sky, 

And  then  rebound  resiliency 

In  rainbow  showers. 
Yes,  toss  on  high  your  diamond-spray, 
For  O  !  my  love  will  come  to-day. 

Bloom,  bloom,  ye  flowers !  my  secret  dear 
Woo  from  the  breezes,  then  lay  bare 
Your  hearts  till  all  the  conscious  air 

Is  perfume-laden. 

Dance,  dance,  ye  brooklets  !  skip  and  dance, 
Over  your  pebbles  glint  and  glance — 
To  see  you  ne'er  again  may  chance 

So  happy  a  maiden. 
Yes,  o'er  your  pebbles  glint  and  play, 
For  O  !  my  love  will  come  to-day. 


LYRICS.  65 

And  ye,  O  guardian  seraphim  ! 

Who  listening  lean  o'er  Heaven's  rim, 

Rejoice !  for  even  to  the  brim 
My  cup  is  full. 

Thro'  Heaven's  unbounded  latitude 

Swell  anthems  of  her  gratitude 

Who  soon  will  taste  beatitude 

Ineffable, 

That  saints  who  pity  mortals  may 
Rejoice  when  comes  my  love  to-day. 

MY  CUP. 

WITH  the  hand  I  have  held  to  my  heartbeat  so  oft 

To  prove  that  'twas  steady  and  strong, 
She  trac'd  on  a  cup,  out  of  tints  rich  and  soft, 

A  little  bird  hopping  along, 

The  red  holly-berries  among. 

She  brimm'd  it  with  love-drops  press' d  warm  from  her 
And  as  a  slight  memory-boon  [heart, 

Bestow'd  it  upon  me, — and  now  I  would  part, 
Should  angels  themselves  importune, 
With  anything  earthly  more  soon. 

It  is  one  of  the  few  things  that  to  me  belong ; 

That  I  claim  for  my  own,  very  own, 
And  I  take  out  a  kiss  when  I  put  in  a  song, 

Lest  haply  its  sweets  overrun — 

A  new  one  for  every  new  sun. 

Every  blossom,  I  ween,  on  its  nectar  hath  fed 
In  the  arms  of  the  breezes  that  rocks, 

From  the  gay  gladiolus  of  amber-freakt  red 
That  luxury  rear'd  in  a  box 
To  the  delicate-wove  ladysmocks. 


66  LYRICS. 

Happy  emblem  of  life !  may  her  cup  ever  be — 
Tis  my  wish  and  my  prayer  and  my  trust — 
As  graceful,    as   brimming  with   sweetness,    as 

thee, 

And  when  be  shatter'd  it  to  dust, 
As  all  things  terrestrial  must, 
May  her  unfetter 'd  soul  like  thy  fragrance  arise 
And  float  as  an  incense  of  prayer  to  the  skies. 

TO  A  WHITE  ROSE. 

T  WOULD  the  one  I  love  might  gaze  with  me 

Adown  into  thy  bosom's  virgin  depths, 
O  pure- white  rose  !    I  would  that  I  might  place 
A  loving  arm  about  her  yielding  waist 
And  draw  her  down  until  her  eyes,  with  mine, 
Were  on  a  level  with  thy  modest  height, 
That  she  might  drink  with  me  thy  pureness  in, 
And  feel  with  me  the  influence  it  imparts. 

Mute  overhead  the  starry  night  hangs  rapt, 
And  gloats  on  thee  with  all  its  myriad  eyes. 
Not  even  a  sylph-like  zephyr  dares  to  stir, 
Except  a-tiptoe  and  with  bated  breath, 
In  tender  reverence  of  thy  spotlessness. 
The  silver-throated  warbler  of  the  skies, 
Who  all  day  long,  to  serenade  the  stars 
Behind  their  sheeny  curtains  snug-ensconc'd, 
Poured  forth  a  tender-cadenc'd  roundelay, 
Now  floods  the  night  with  melody,  to  coax 
The  moon-queen,  on  her  fortnight's  furlough  off 
Amongst  the  empyrean  wilds,  back  to  her  throne, 
Amidst  the  allegianced  stars,  that  she  may  throw 
A  silver  veil  upon  thy  bride-like  brow. 


67 


Lo  !  where  the  Dian  of  the  marble  font 
Bends  forward  to  admire  thy  chastity, 
While  yonder  broad  Caladium  shields  thee  from 
The  pelting  of  the  o'er-fond  fountain  spray, 
Not  twenty  paces  off, 

Thy  red,  red  sister-rose  holds  social  sway. 
Belle  of  the  garden,  see  her  nod  and  smile 
And  toss  the  enticing  kiss,  and  woo  about 
Her  feet  a  coterie  of  worshippers. 
I  lay  my  grateful  tribute  at  her  shrine. 
God  made  her,  too — she  has  a  heart  of  gold 
Beneath  her  fashionable  plush — her  breath 
Is  fragrant  with  delicious  compliments, 
(More  oft  deserved  than  else)  called  flattery 
By  the  less  courteous  and  less  beautiful. 
She  cannot  help  her  beauty — 'twas  God's  gift. 
She  wins  a  hundred  eyes  and  hearts;  while  thou, 
O  pure-white  rose,  win'st  but  one  poet's  soul. 
Yon  vestal  lily  holds  herself  aloof, 
As  tho'  to  say,  I'll  hold  the  torch  for  thee, 
But  come  not  near  me  with  thine  earthly  touch. 
Her  I  admire,  too,  at  a  distance.     God 
Makes  every  kind  of  flower  to  breathe  His  praise 
A  different  way.     But  thou,  O  human-sweet! 
O  heavenly-pure!    thou  winnest human  souls 
To  heavenly  purposes — not  by  lofty  aims — 
By  simply  being  what  thou  art — thyself. 

Let  others  toil  and  spin,  let  others  strive — 
Thy  presence  serves ;  for  all  who  enter  there 
Are  purified,  uplifted,  and  made  wise 
In  thy  simplicity.     Pure  womanhood, 
God's  last  achievement,  thou  dost  typify. 


How  can  I  thank  thee  for  this  perfect  hour ! 
When  thou  hast  let  me  look  into  thine  heart 
And  learn  the  secret  of  thine  influence. 
O  that  my  pen  might  bless  the  world  therewith, 
Even  as  thou  blesseth  me,  my  pure-white  Rose. 

VIOLET. 

MY  lady  gave  me  a  ribbon  red, 

All  on  a  wintry  day  so  bleak. 
"  Tie  it  about  your  throat,''  she  said, 

Knot  it  close  to  your  pale,  wan  cheek. 
Life  is  glad ',  and  grieving  is  sin  ; 
Earth's  happy  ones  are  the  ones  -who  win." 

And  so  I  carried  my  ribbon  red 

Preciously  home  to  my  dear  song-bower ; 
I  knotted  it  'round  my  throat,  as  she  said, 

And  there  it  nestled  this  very  hour, 
Close,  so  close  to  my  pale,  wan  cheek, 
I  could  all  but  hear  it  breathe  and  speak : 
"  Life  is  glad ',  and  grieving  is  sin; 
Earth*  s  happy  ones  are  the  ones  who  win" 

But  there  as  I  sat,  there  came  to  me 
Out  of  the  past,  a  memory — 
A  sad-eyed  maiden,  tender  and  true, 
With  a  packet  of  letters  tied  all  in  blue. 
I  looked  on  the  red,  I  looked  on  the  blue, 
Far  better  be  dead  than  to  be  untrue  ! 
"  Then  choose,"  said  a  voice,  4<  the  violet, 
For  here  the  red  and  the  blue  have  met." 


AN  OLD  VALENTINE. 

WHAT  did  God  make  kisses  for? 

For  the  self-same  reason 
That  He  made  the  birds  and  flowers 

Sing  and  blow  in  season. 
Kisses,  dearest — once  again — 
Let  them  sprinkle,  let  them  rain. 

Some  day,  under  kinder  skies, 

When  the  mists  are  risen, 
Thou  and  I  in  Paradise, 

Walking  fields  elysian, 
Kisses,  dearest,  like  to  these, 
Ne'er  shall  cease,  ne'er  shall  cease. 

In  the  happy  meanwhile,  love, 

Howsoe'er  disparted, 
Thou  and  I  in  time's  despite, 

Shall  be  joyous-hearted. 
Kisses,  dearest,  memory  kisses — 
This  our  bliss  is,  this  our  bliss  is. 

"WERE  HER  KISSES  LESS  RARE." 

"\UERE  her  kisses  less  rare 
Perhaps  I  would  care 

For  them  less. 

Were  her  hand's  tender  pressure 
A  gift  at  my  pleasure, 

'Twere  valued  at — yes, 

Something  less. 

There's  a  rose  in  my  garden  smiles  all  the  year  thro'; 
Its  prettiness  wearies  me  soon. 


70  LYRICS. 

I  kiss  it — it  smiles  ;  I  drop  it — it  smiles  ; 
It  smiles  whatsoe'er  I  may  do. 
There's  another  that  blushes  at  every  full  moon, 
Which  somewhat  beguiles. 
It  teases  me,  pleases  me, 
Never  quite  seizes  me, 

Never  quite  fills  me,  as  one 
That  dropped,  angel-wise, 
From  unreckoned  skies, 
Held  me  once  to  its  heart — 
And  was  gone ! 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  STAR  JASMINE. 

tyiTHIN  the  Vale  of  Circumstance 

Two  deadly  foes,  one  dead  of  night, 
Cross'd  shadows  in  the  dim  starlight, 
Cross'd  shadows  in  the  dim  starlight. 
Or  was  it  Providence,  or  chance  ? 

"  Thy  name !  who  durst  perturb  my  way/' 
Called  one  who  journey'd  toward  the  stars, 

"  Keep  thee  behind  thy  prison-bars, 
Keep  thee  behind  thy  prison-bars  ! — 
Nor  think  AMBITION'S  flighrto  stay." 

"  Cross  not  my  threshold,  haughty  dame, 
In  thy  vain  journey  toward  the  stars, 
Nor  mock  my  precious  prison-bars, 
Nor  mock  my  precious  prison-bars, 
HUMILITY  my  lowly  name." 

Or  was  it  Providence  or  chance  ? 
Two  deadly  foes,  one  dead  of  night, 


LYRICS.  71 

Lay  dead  beneath  the  dim  starlight, 
Lay  dead  beneath  the  dim  starlight, 
Within  the  vale  of  circumstance. 

And  as  by  way  of  compromise, 
From  out  the  ashes  of  the  two, 
Lo  I,  a  pale  STAR  JASMINE  grew, 
Who  ever  hug  earth's  prison-bars, 
Who  ever  hug  earth's  prison-bars, 
Yet  ever  strive  toward  the  skies. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  MOTH. 
TN  contemplation  lost,  a  poet  sits, 

His  eye  turn'd  westward.    Thro*  the  lattice  comes 
The  last  faint-lingering  breath  the  gloaming  sigh'd 
When  thro'  her  parti-tinted  veil  of  sheen 
She  saw  the  round-fac'd  herald  of  her  doom 
Smiling  triumphant  o'er  the  opposing  hills. 
Within  the  twirling  texture  of  his  brain 
A  winged  poem  lies  enmesh'd:  he  fain 
Would,  yet  would  not,  cage  it  for  aye  in  words, 
Ere  haply  it  escape  and  go  the  way 
^real  it  came,  unlocalized. — 
(For  the  poet's  first  impulse  is  to  give 
Freely  of  what  to  him  is  freely  given)  — 
And  yet  'twas  passing  sweet  to  hold  it  there, 
With  dews  of  heaven  fresh  upon  its  wings, 
A  secret  visitant. — With  sudden  turn 
He  lights  the  lamp,  and  o'er  the  inviting  page 
Pours  out  his  mood — when  lo  !  a  guileless  moth, 
With  tinsel  wings,  gold-dusted,  wilder'd  by 
The  dazzle  of  the  light  that  lur'd  it  in, 
Falls  blinded  o'er  the  moisty  page,  and  leaves 


72 


Athwart  it,  where  his  winglets  trail,  a  blot 
Big  and  uncouth.  The  poet  lifts  his  hand, 
Vexation  knits  his  brow — with  one  true  aim 
Down  comes  his  ruthless  fist. — A  tiny  heap 
Of  powder' d  tinsel  meets  his  softening  eye. 
He  drops  the  pen.  The  poem  has  escaped. 


AFTER-PEACE. 

"U7HEN  he  was  here  a  sharp  remorse 

Shot  ofttimes  thro'  the  bosom's  core, 
But  it  was  still'd  forevermore 
When  thro'  the  gates  they  bore  his  corpse. 

His  nature,  cast  in  nobler  mold 
Than  ours,  and  divinelier-strung, 
With  our  ungentleness  was  stung 
When  loving  blame  wax'd  overbold 

To  shapen  his  unworldliness 
Subservient  to  our  worldly  ends. 
We  who  were  sent  to  be  his  friends 
Seem'd  oftenest  to  bring  distress. 

And  oft  we  said,  When  he  is  dead, 
Remorse,  with  keenlier-temper'd  knife, 
Will  pierce  thro'  all  our  after  life 
For  this  thing  said,  that  left  unsaid. 

But  now  that  death  hath  brought  surcease 
Of  toil,  and  rais'd  him  to  his  sphere, 
We  feel  he  knows  we  lov'd  him  here — 
He  understands — and  we're  at  peace. 


73 


are — 


SWEET-SHRUBBING. 

MY  loves  and  I  sweet-shrubbing  went 

All  on  a  balmy  April  day. 
Three  summers  they — and  I  ? — ah  me  ! 

What  recketh  time  when  the  heart  is  gay  ? 

At  first  my  loves  were  coy  and  shy, 

As  new-unprisoned  birdlings  art — 

Now  leap  and  fly  thro'  the  under-sky, 

Where  every  blossom  seemeth  a  star ! 

Clustering  bluets,  Pleiades-white, 

Wild  strawberry  blossoms  as  yellow  as  Venus- 
And  O  !  the  laughter  following  after 

We  pluck  them  and  share  them  between  us. 

O'er  dale  and  dune,  right  valiantly, 

Thro*  many  a  brambleberry  toil, 
We  wend  our  way  till  close  of  day, 

When  lo  !  appeareth  the  purple  spoil. 

We  knew  it  first  by  the  air  around, 

Ere  down  in  the  marsh  we  glimps'd  it.     See ! 
A  great  fresh  clump  ! — and  over  they  jump 

Into  the  cool  green  sedge  with  me. 

And  never  an  Israelite  brought  back 

From  the  Promised  Land  his  Eshcol  wonder 

With  head  more  proud  than  those  we  bow'd 
That  royal  weight  of  sweetshrubs  under. 


74  LYRICS. 

LEX  TALIONIS. 
ONLY  suppose 

I  were  this  rose, 

And  thou  should'st  stoop  down  and  kiss  me, 
Then  pass  me  by — 
Of  course  I  should  die — 
And  thou  ? — O  thou  hardly  would'st  miss  me. 

But  when  Spring  came  again 

I'd  return  with  the  stain 
Of  thy  lips  on  my  deep-bruised  petals  ; 

Should'st  thou  then  stoop  to  pick  me, 

Take  care  !  I  would  prick  thee 
Till  blood  trickled  down  o'er  my  nettles. 
*•        #        #        *•        *        #• 

Spring  comes  again. 

I  return  with  the  stain 
Of  thy  lips  on  my  deep-bruised  petals ; 

Thou  stoopest  to  pick  me 

Once  more.     Do  I  prick  thee 
Till  blood  trickles  down  o'er  my  nettles  ? 
Nay !  I  bend  like  a  reed  'neath  the  old-time  caresses — 
And  burn  a  live-coal  in  the  black  of  your  tresses. 

LOVE. 

With    apologies   to   Raphael  and  Lea,  in  Moore's    "Songs  of  the 
Angels." 

'TWO  spots  in  all  the  world  there  are  to  me  : 

The  one  bright,  radiant  spot 
Where  beams  her  face, 
The  one  broad,  dreary  space 

Where  she  is  not, 
Two  spots  in  all  the  world  there  are  to  me. 


LYRICS.  75 

GRACE. 

T  KNOW  not  what,  but  when  she  lifts  her  hand 

To  point  a  flower's  perfection,  with  "  But  see  ! 
How  exquisite  ! "  the  blossom  magically 
Assumes  a  rare,  new  fragrance,  as  by  wand, 
And  all  the  quicken'd  sense  is  forthwith  fann'd 

With  wave  on  wave  of  Eden  fragrancy. 
A  subtlety — we  may  not  understand, — 

Past  painter's  brush,  past  poet's  minstrelsy. 

JAUNETTE. 
CHY  violet,  feigning  with  thy  conscious  lashes 

To  ward  aside  the  enamor'd  earth's  addresses, 
Yet,  when  the  jealous  skies,  with  lightning  flashes, 
Would  snatch  thee  home,  dost  hug  it  fast — O  this  is 
Jaunette's  own  way, 
So  timid — yet 
Coquette !  Coquette ! 
Frail  morning  glory,  who,  ere  the  day  dare  face  the 

Darkness,  upliftest  honeyed  mouth  for  kisses  ; 
But  when  its  kindled  passion  would  embrace  thee, 
Tuckest  thine  head  and  vanishest — O  this  is 
Jaunette's  own  way, 
So  gracious — yet 
Coquette  !  Coquette ! 

Plain  brier  rose,  who  wearest  thy  bad  temper 

Outside  thy  sleeve,  beneath  thy  scanty  tresses 
A  heart  of  gold— I  dare  my  touch  (sic  semper  /) 
Shatter'd  thine  heart :  thy  nettles  cling — O  this  is 

Jaunette's  own  way, 

.So  candid — yet 

Coquette  !  Coquette  I 


76  LYRICS. 

Rare  Jacqueminot,  whose  tapering  waist  awaitest, 
Thornless  and  smooth,  mine  amorous  caresses, 
Yet  when  I  fain  would  clasp  thee,  concentratest 
An  hundred  briers  in  one  thorn — O  this  is 
Jaunette's  own  way, 
So  cultured — yet 
Coquette  !  Coquette ! 

Sad-eyed  Anemone,  a  pale  recluse 

(Since  Zeph'rus'  fate)  for  thee  no  second  bliss  is  ; 
Yet  let  wild  Boreas  once  his  passion  loose, 

Thou  blushest  forth  a  twinkling  star — O  this  is 
Jaunette's  own  way, 
So  constant — yet 
Coquette!  Coquette! 

Night-blooming  Cereus,  scorning  Sol's  advances, 

Retired  within  thy  convent's  chaste  abysses, 
Off  with  thy  hood  !  thou'rt  scheming  soft  romances 
With  ieweled  Nox  at  trysting-time — O  this  is 
Jaunette's  own  way, 
A  saint — and  yet 
Coquette!  Coquette! 

Jaunette  !  star-princess  of  the  blossoming  skies, 
Who  guid'st  my  poor  heart  out  earth's    wilder- 
nesses, 

Now  waxed  so  dazzling  bright,  dost  blind  the  eyes 
Erewhile  thou  woo'dest  Eden  ward — O  this  is 
A  most  cruel  way, 
Farewell — and  yet 
Jaunette !  Jaunette ! 


LYRICS.  77 

'    A  MAY  REGRET. 

T  DO  repent  me  of  the  ungentle  things 
1     I  said  about  thee,  Winter.     Had  I  known 
That  that  rime-frosted  mantle  'round  thee  thrown 
Hid  roots  of  such  luxurious  blossomings, 
Of  royal  heartsease,  lilies  gold-besprent, 
And  milk-wr^ite  pinks,  for  Spring's  bewilderment, 
I  had  not  slamm'd  the  door  so  in  thy  face 
When  thou  wast  fain  to  be  my  midnight  guest, 
But  e'en  had  ask'd  thee  to  the  cosiest  place 
And  of  kind  welcomes  given  thee  the  best. 

A  SPRIG  OF  PERIWINKLE. 

A    SPRIG  of  periwinkle  from  the  grave  of  Dolly 

Madison. 

The  prettiest  and  the  wittiest  first  lady  of  the  land 
she  was, 

And  like  this  periwinkle 
Her  laughing  eyes  did  twinkle, 
But   now  the   periwinkle  twinkles   all   above  her 
eyes,  alas. 

Sweet  Dolly  Madison ! 

0  the  hearts  and  hearts  she  won  ! 

She  was  a  merry  lady  tho'  the  proudest  in  the  land, 
I  ween. 

At  old  Montpelier 

1  pause  and  drop  a  tear 

For  the  dancing  and  the  laughter  down  these  dim  old 
avenues  have  been. 

And  yonder  looms  the  Blue  Ridge — there  the  fields 
of  old  Manassas  lie — 


The  Rapidan  trips  'round  the  hills — so  swift  her  merry 
tripping  was — 

Yes,  like  the  periwinkle 
Her  dancing  feet  did  twinkle, 

But  now  the   periwinkle  twinkles   all   above  her 
feet,  alas. 

Sweet  Dolly  Madison  I 

0  the  hearts  and  hearts  she  won  ! 

She  was  a  merry  lady  tho'  the  proudest  in  the  land, 
I  ween. 

At  old  Montpelier 

1  pause  and  drop  a  tear 

For  the  dancing  and  the  laughter  down  these  dim  old 
avenues  have  been. 


RAIN  IN  THE  DUST. 

DICH  incense  of  roses,  rare  violet  breath, 

The  subtle  aroma  of  mountain  blue-bells, 
The  sensuous  perfume  of  magnolia  bloom, 
The  Edenic  fragrance  of  white  asphodels — 
Aye  !  but  give  me  the  odor  that  rises  up  just 
After  showers  in  summer  of  rain  in  the  dust. 

Then  roses  and  violets  and  white  asphodels 
Intermix    with   magnolia    and   mountain   blue- 
bells- 
All  odors  that  charm  intermingle  and  rise 
Till  the  earth  seems  a  censer  that's  swung  to 

the  skies. 

Yes,  give  me  the  odor  that  rises  up  just 
After  showers  in  summer  of  rain  in  the  dust. 


79 


"  THE  ETERNAL  HOPE." 

CTARLESS  midnight  in  December 

Ne'er  was  blacker,  ne'er  was  colder, 
Than  his  heart,  a  Dead  Sea  boulder, 
A  burn'd  out  crater,  with  no  ember — 
"  Lost,  past  restitution  lost." 

Lo,  a  little  child  one  even 
Pass'd  his  way  :  her  baby  prattle 
Rous'd  dead  passions  to  pitch-battle, 
As  when  Michael's  band  in  Heaven     • 
Warr'd  with  the  Satanic  host. 

Never  heard  I  of  him  after — 
If  he  rose  or  deeper  fell, — 
But  this  lesson  learn'd  I  well, 
While  the  world  hears  baby  laughter 
Souls  can  never  quite  be  lost. 

UNDER  OUR  FLAG. 

Two  PICTURES. 
I. 

UALF-couch'd  in  crimson  plush,  one  slipper'd  toe 

Daintily  resting  on  an  ottoman 
Of  oriental  dyes,  a  lace-wrought  fan 
Concealing  half  her  bosom's  jewell'd  snow, 
She  lolls  luxuriously  ;  while,  breathing  low 
A  honey'd  iteration  from  false  lips, 
Over  her  half-moon'd  fingertip  he  slips 
A  rich  troth- token  of  transplendent  glow. 


80  LYRICS. 

II. 

Down  in  his  cavern  home  of  dawnless  night, 
Sweating  he  toileth  for  the  precious  stone, 
While  from  his  half-fed  lips  goeth  up  a  moan 
For  her  who  sitteth  in  the  dim  lamplight 
Far  up  above,  and  with  red  aching  sight 
Weaveth  the  web-like  lace  with  rare  device, 
While  to  her  milkless  breasts,  with  plaintive  cries, 
Cling  baby  lips  all  pinch'd  and  hunger  white. 

TENNYSON— IN  OLD  AGE. 

(A  REPROACH.) 

"DECAUSE  our  poet-king 

Cannot  so  grandly  sing 
As  when  the  noontide  ichor  coursed  along  his  veins ; 

Because  his  tottering  lyre 

Has  lost  its  pristine  fire 

In  that  dear  after-calm  which  comes  when  passion 
wanes  ; 

Shall  we  for  this,  forsooth  ! 

Proclaim  his  lays  uncouth, 
And  drag  his  glittering  name  the  slimy  streets  along  ? 

Nay  !  but  with  tenderer  grace 

Heart-press  each  waif  that  strays 
From  this  the  precious  second  childhood  of  his  song. 

AMELIE  RIVES. 

(ON  READING  HER  EARLY  POEMS.) 
Q  WHAT  so  bright  a  star, 

On  what  so  soft  a  morn, 
Shed  influent  ray  that  happy  day, 
Amelie,  thou  wast  born  ? 


81 


O  what  so  rare  a  bird, 

From  what  so  golden  clime, 

Hath  taught  thy  throat  its  silvery  note 

To  lift  in  liquid  rhyme — 

Columbia's  nightingale  of  song, 

Amelie. 

From  moon  to  moon  we  sit 
And  northward  listening  lean. 
Leap  up !  rejoice  !  for  hark,  a  voice 
Thro'  all  the  rhythmic  din, — 
A  voice  from  out  a  soul, 
A  young  voice,  thro'  a  wail 
Pulsing  its  way,  more  fresh  than  they 
That  quicken'd  Tempe's  vale — 
Columbia's  nightingale  of  song, 

Amelie. 

O  what  so  stern  a  fate, 
In  what  so  ungentle  wake, 
Thy  midnight  breast  hath  taught  unrest, 
Thy  guileless  heart  to  break  ? 
We  love  thee,  dainty  soul. 
If  grief  or  memory-wraith 
In  thy  fair  glade  have  cast  its  shade, 
God  lift  it  from  thy  path  ! 
Columbia's  nightingale  of  song, 

Amelie. 

And  yet  we  need  thee  so, 
Even  as  thou  art,  to  sing, 
Upon  thine  harp  we  would  not  warp 
One  delicate  minor  string. 
Long  live  to  sing  and  soar  ! 
Yet,  in  thine  higher  soarings, 
6 


82 


For  clearer  truths  than  came  in  youth's 

First  passionate  outpourings, 

Thou  need'st   must  reach  in  vain. 

Loving  and  life  are  one, 

And  hearts  must  bleed  while  hearts  have  need 

Of  love  beneath  the  sun, 

Columbia's  nightingale  of  song, 

Amelie. 


CORINNE. 

CORINNE  !     Corinne! 

I  thought  to  catch  thine  accents  in  my  song. 
Alas,  they  slipp'd  and  glided  'tvvixt  my  rhymes 
And  trickled  in  and  out  among 
The  syllables  of  my  words. 
As  easily  might  I  forecast  the  chimes 
That  burst  from  golden-throated  mocking-birds 
As  catch  thy  gliding  cadences  within 
The  meshes  of  my  rhymes, 

Corinne!     Corinne! 

And,  like  that  peerless  spirit  of  the  wood, 
Misnam'd,  thou  interpretest — not  echoest  back 
In  soulless  iteration.     As  I  stood 
And  listened  to  your  plaintive  jo-ree  cry, 
That  morning  in  midwinter,  thou  did'st  take 
Me  back  to  July  forests,  where  the  sky 
Kisses  and  melts  into  the  pines — blue-green 
Even  as  thy  genius  eyes, 

Corinne !     Corinne ! 


RHEA. 
pHARMANT !     I  wot  not  in  what  witching  wise 

Our  fond  old  mother-tongue  could  perk  herself 
In  Frenchy  airs!     Plum'd  in  her  pretty  pelf 
Of  smother'd  s's,  silent  /'s,  soft  z"s, 
In  lisping  syllables  that  fall  and  rise 
In  unexpected  rhythm,  like  a  sylph 
She  glints  across  the  dusty  classic  shelf, 
In  scorn  of  startled  Webster — aye,  defies 
Her  very  Pujol !     But  what  tho'  ?    Our  heart, 
She  reaches  that,  despite  !  and  that  is  where 
Words  lodge  and  live,  or  glance  and  stillborn  fall. 
Rare  Rhea!  we  love  thee  in  thine  every  part, 
But  in  the  perfum'd  presence  of  thy  fair 
Sweet  woman-s^we  love  thee  best  of  all. 

RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE. 

A  telegram  to  little  Miss  Ruth  Cleveland  on  her  arrival  in  the  nation. 

DABY  white,  with  starry  eyes, 

Take  these  little  stripes  of  song, 
With  red  kisses  strewn  along, 
From  a  poet  'neath  blue  skies. 

A  SIMPLE  NOTE  OF  THANKS. 

A    SIMPLE  note  of  thanks— yet  'tis 

Here  a  queen's  heart  its  grace  doth  prove— 
Columbia's  queen,  whose  coronet  is 
Columbia's  admiring  love. 

Now  on  her  beauteous  brow  serene 
A  brighter  gem  by  hand  of  God 
Is  set,  that  makes  her  doubly  queen — 
The  jewel  of  young  motherhood. 


84 


Out  in  our  nation's  firmament 
Her  memory  will  shine  apart, 
Like  Wordsworth's  star,  pre-eminent 
For  beauty,  pureness,  grace  of  heart. 

But  ah  !  her  delicatest  deed 

Of  grace,  that  all  the  rest  outranks, 

Is,  that  she  took  the  time  to  read 

My  lines,  and  send  this  note  of  thanks. 

WHAT  FLOWER  IS  BABY  MARY? 

WHAT  flower  is  Baby  Mary? 
Arose?    Ah.no! 
That  breathes  and  blows 
An  hour,  then  goes 
To  make  its  bed  beneath  the  snows. 
What  flower  is  Baby  Mary  ? 

A  rose  ?    Ah,  no ! 

What  flower  is  Baby  Mary  ? 

A  violet  ?    Nay ! 
That  lifts  its  head, 
Then  droops  it,  dead, 
And  all  its  joy  is  spent  and  sped. 
What  flower  is  Baby  Mary  ? 

A  violet  ?     Nay. 

What  flower  is  Baby  Mary  ? 

A  white  asphodel, 

That  oped  its  eyes  'neath  Eden  skies 
To  bloom  for  aye  in  Paradise. 
This  flower  is  Baby  Mary — 

A  white  asphodel. 


85 


BABY'S  FIRST  JOURNEY. 
TJOLD  out  your  arms,  nurse — 

Steady,  my  little  one  ! 
Let  go  my  fingers,  miss — 

You've  still  got  the  middle  one. 

No  crawling — learn  to  walk— r 

Don't  jump — don't  fidget — 

Gracefully — head  erect — 
Step,  little  midget ! 

Don't  stare  so  woe-begone, 

The  carpet  is  downy. 
Don't  squat  as  guineas  do ! 

Don't  climb,  like  Bunny  ! 

Now  be  a  Joan  d'Arc  ! 

Hip  !  hip  !  one,  two,  three  ! 
What's  that  in  nurse's  hand  ? 

Sugar-plum,  seems  to  me  I 

No  need  to  coo  like  that, 

Full  time  you  learn,  miss. 

Only  by  labor  hard 

Good  things  we  earn,  miss. 

Once  more  !  and  up  again  ! 

Now  a  step  forward ! 
Don't  clutch  my  girdle  so, 

You  little  coward  ! 

See,  nurse,  she's  made  a  step 

Into  the  rosie-red ; 
One  more  will  take  her  clear 

Over  the  posy-bed. 


That's  papa's  precious  girl ! 

What  a  sight  he  misses  ! 
Nurse,  give  up  the  plum,  while  I 

Smother  her  with  kisses  ! 

"TOGETHER  GREW  UPON  ONE  STEM." 

(GRANDMOTHER — GRANDDAUGHTER.) 
^OGETHER  grew  upon  one  stem 

A  white  rose  and  a  white  rosebud. 
Gazing,  full  of  love,  on  them, 
Close  beside,  a  poet  stood. 

And  O  !  I  said,  together  so 
Might  they  always  bud  and  blow. 

The  bud  reached  up  toward  the  rose, 
The  rose  stooped  down  toward  the  bud, 
Each  leaning  on  the  other  close, 
Clasping,  kissing  all  they  could. 

And  O  !  I  said,  in  wise  like  this, 
Might  they  always  clasp  and  kiss. 
A  playful  zephyr  slipt  between, 
Unclaspt  their  arms  in  mock  disdain, 
Then  friskt  them  into  friends  again 
More  fast  than  ever  they  had  been. 
And  O  !  I  said,  in  this  coy  way, 
Might  they  always  frisk  and  play. 

But  Time,  who  is  the  rose's  friend, 
Is,  too,  the  rose's  ruthless  foe, 
And  brings,  with  certain  pace,  we  know, 
Alike  to  age  and  youth — an  end 

Then  O !  I  said,  by  art's  sweet  grace, 
I'll  set  them  in  the  Future's  vase. 


LYRICS.  87 

TO  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS  OF  EIGHTEEN- 
EIGHTY-EIGHT. 

Q  AUTUMN  Woods  of  Eighteen-eighty-eight ! 

How  can  you  smile  and  flaunt  your  yellow  arms, 
In  mockery  of  danger's  flag-alarms 
Thick  waving  o'er  our  stricken  Sister-State. 
Sweet  Florida  lies  dying 
While  o'er  the  hills  you're  flying, 
A-pleasuring  in  holiday  array  1 

Twelve  moons  ago  I  bounded  o'er  your  hills 
Blithe  as  your  swallows  and  as  careless-merry, 
I  gathered  jewels  from  your  whortleberry 
And  dipped  my  fingers  in  your  laughing  rills. 
To-day  I  cannot  bear 
Your  red-and  yellow  glare, 
But  turn  mine  aching  eyes  the  Boreal  way. 

Fling  down  your  glittering  sceptre,  goldenrod ! 
Take  off  your  royal  ensign,  purple  phlox  ! 
Shake  the  haw- rubies  from  your  golden  locks  ! 
Put  on  your  sackcloth,  don  your  sombre  hoodl 

And  bid  your  breezes  sigh 

A  dirge-like  melody 
In  sympathy  with  our  sweet  sister's  passion. 

Then  o'er  your  darkling  hilltops,  lightning-fleet, — 
Speed  with  a  message  to  the  Ice  King's  home, 
And  bid  the  great  Physician  this  way  come. 
Arm'd  with  his  sheets  of  snow,  his  pills  of  sleet, 

Fair  Florida  to  save 

From  an  untimely  grave — 
The  pet  and  bridal  state  of  our  proud  nation. 


IN  FLORIDA. 

"UfHO'S  yon  merry  maiden, 

Dancing  down  the  dune, 
Roseate  robes  array'd  in, 
Arms  with  blossoms  laden, 

On  her  lips  a  tune, 

In  her  hair  the  moon  ? 
Sure  yon  radiant  maiden 

Is  the  Lady  June. 

Nay !  yon  lovely  maiden, 

With  the  step  so  fairy, 
Roseate  robes  array'd  in, 
Arms  with  blossoms  laden, 

Tuneful  lips  and  cherry, 

Crescent-crowned  and  merry — 
Nay  !  yon  radiant  maiden 

Is  young  January. 

IN  AN  ORANGE  GROVE. 
"TIS  day— and  yet  the  stars  ! 

Sure  heavenly  constellations  these ! 
There's  Venus!  and  there's  Mars  f 
And  yonder  faint  the  Pleiades  / 

The  Sickle's  curve ! — and  lo ! 
Orion's  ruddy  belt  is  plain. 
The  Serpent 's  sinuous  path — and  O ! 
Behold  great  "  Charles'  Wain." 

Ofttimes  Pve  prayed  the  prayer 
On  earth  let  Heaven's  kingdom  be, 
But  little  dream1  d  I  now  and  here 
The  beauteous  symbol  thus  to  see. 


BAY  AND  PALM. 

"DEHOLD  yon  green  baytree  : 

Close  to  the  ground  it  flourisheth  ; 
Emblem  of  man's  mortality, 
To  it  the  purer  air  were  death. 

Behold  again  yon  palm  : 
Only  in  higher  air  it  thriveth ; 
Emblem  of  spirit,  lofty,  calm, 
Ever  towards  the  stars  it  striveth. 


'ON  POINT  OF  SPANISH  BAYONET." 

QN  point  of  "  Spanish  Bayonet  '* 

See  Mariposa  calmly  sit — 
Which  I,  with  all  my  wisdom,  must 
Avoid  lest  in  me  it  be  thrust. 
Sweet  Edith  Thomas  would  declare 
'Tis  "  frailty's  shield  "  preserves  him  there. 

And  yet  methinks,  sweet  butterfly, 
Rather  than  thee  I  would  be  I. 
Thou  thinkest  that  is  Heaven — and  yet, 
'Tis  point  of  Spanish  Bayonet ! 
Give  me  the  little  grain  of  sense — 
Take  thou  the  blissful  ignorance. 


O  LILIES  OF  ST.  JOHN'S. 
Q  LILIES  of  St.  John's  !     No  schism 

Can  ere  apostate  you  to  soil 
Of  earth.     Your  life,  one  long  baptism, 
Exempteth  you  from  mortal  toil. 


90 


A  FLORIDA  TWILIGHT. 
T  SIT  beneath  a  golden-fruited  mandarin. 

To  westward,  thro'  the  zephyr-swaying  emerald 

boughs, 

I  glimpse  the  placid  bosom  of  fair  "  Loch  Katrine," 
Beaded  with  mother-of-pearl.     To  eastward,  rows 
On  rows  of  topaz  oranges,  with  here  and  there 
A  jacinth  tangerine,  foil'd  by  a  silvering  grape, 
While  conscious  twilight  spreadeth  o'er  the  whole 

landscape 
An  amethystine  veil  looped  with  one  diamond  star. 


NEW  MOON  ON  ST.  JOHN'S. 

"TIS  new  moon  on  St.  John's, 

And  a  charm  is  on  my  soul. 
And  what  care  I  which  way  the  die 
Be  cast  or  the  fate-wheels  roll  ? 
Can  souls  in  Heaven  be  conscience-riven 
For  souls  that  have  miss'd  the  goal? 
'Tis  new  moon  on  St.  John's, 
And  a  charm  is  on  my  soul. 

On  northward  heights  they  freeze, 

In  southward  swamps  they  burn, 

But  God  is  above  and  I  may  not  move 

The  scales  of  doom  to  turn. 

So  what  care  I  which  way  the  die 

Be  cast,  or  the  fate-wheels  roll — 

'Tis  new  moon  on  St.  John's, 

And  a  charm  is  on  my  soul. 


91 


SWEETHEART  JANUARY. 

'THRUSHES  in  the  liveoaks 
Make  my  pathway  merry, 

As  I  rove  to  meet  my  love, 
Sweetheart  January ! 

My  new  love,  my  true  love, 
Sweetheart  January ! 

Au  revoir,  December  dear! 

Poets  may  not  tarry. 
She  hath  violets  in  her  hair, 

Moss-veil'd  January  I 
My  fair  love,  my  rare  love, 

Sweetheart  January  ! 

In  her  breast  are  lemonbuds — 
Of  their  thorns  I'm  chary — 

I  would  kiss  thee  an'  I  dared, 
Blushing  January. 

My  shy  love,  my  coy  love, 
Sweetheart  January  1 

In  her  hands  is  glittering  gold — 

Maid  unmercenary ! 
All  thy  treasures  I  would  hold, 

Bounteous  January ! 
O  sweet  love,  O  fleet  love, 

Sweetheart  January ! 

For  new  charms  I'll  pass  thee  by, 
Grown  of  thine  aweary, 

But  to-day  for  thee  I'd  die, 
Darling  January! 

O  glad  love,  O  mad  love, 
Sweetheart  January. 


92 


ON  LAKE  MINNEHAHA. 
T  O !  I  have  awaked  in  Fairie-land, 

Where  oranges  burst  thro*  the  glittering  sand, 
And  lakes,  like  diamonds,  circle  and  deck 
Fair  Florida's  beautiful  swanlike  neck — 
In  a  spot  of  perennial  summertime  weather, 
Where  the  gulf  and  the  ocean  come  nearest  together, 
I  sit  'neath  a  golden  tangerine, 
Whose  drooping  branches  serve  to  screen 
The  sensitive  strings  of  a  Georgia  harp 
From  breezes  that  worry  and  beams  that  warp. 

Just  down  the  orange  avenue 

I  glimpse  the  "  laughing  waters  "  blue — 

Beautiful  Baby  Minnehaha, 

Nourished  by  Dame  Palatlakaha — 

She  smiles  and  beckons  and  dimples  with  glee 

And  kisses  her  jewell'd  fingers  at  me, 

And  tosses  her  tresses,  and  calls,  "  Come  down 

For  a  frolic  !  "     I  answer,  "  Anon,  anon  !  " 

Clustering  grapefruit  hangs  near  the  door, 

Like  Eshcol  clusters  from  Canaan's  shore, 

Borne  on  a  staff — and  lo  I  and  behpld ! 

Little  Brownies  are  springing  up  out  of  the  mold — 

Shade  of  St.  Nicholas !     Whence  did  they  come? 

There's  Alton  and  Hulsey  and  Nellie  and  Tom — 

Now  they  scoot  down  the  sand-slope  and  into  the 

brake- 
Now  the  boys  are    half-way  to  their  knees  in  the 

lake— 

I  scream  to  them  vainly.     Now  each  little  trooper 
Wades  out,  with  a  mussel  to  bake  for  my  supper ! 


Now  shadows  are  falling  o'er  valley  and  dune — 
Minnehaha  is  waiting  for  Grandmother  Moon 
To  kiss  her  good  night — all  bedight  in  a  gown 
As  white  as  May  blossoms  and  fluffy  as  down, 
Her  pretty  red  cloak  and  her  dainty  blue  shoes 
Laid  aside  till  to-morrow.     And  now  how  she  coos 
And  claps  and  flings  kisses,  for  Grandmother  Moon 
Is  peeping  just  over  the  hilltops,  and  soon 
The  mists  will  have  vanished  and  left  her  round  face 
All  dimples  and  smiles  for  the  darling  embrace. 

FAREWELL  TO  LOCH    KATRINE. 
'THE  pines  stalactite  moss  into  the  wave, 

The  wave  stalagmites  it  again  to  shore : 
From  where  my  shallop  drifts  I  seem  once  more 
To  dare  the  dangers  of  the  Luray  Cave. 

As  some  dread  mystery  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Upholds  us  when  the  eye  of  faith  we  lift, 
Thus  in  my  faithful  shallop  do  I  drift 
Safest  and  surest  where  I  seem'd  most  lost. 

I  turn  :  a  trillion  diamonds  twinkle  out 
Across  the  wave — now  into  opals  melt — 
Now  fire  into  an  amethystine  belt, 
Girding  the  bosom  of  the  lake  about. 

As  Father  Son  had  thought  it  best  to  go 
From  his  beloved  earth  a  little  while, 
But  left  behind,  in  one  bright  after-smile, 
The  promise  of  the  Comforter.     And  lo  ! 

Where  now  she  shimmers  forth,  the  Evening  Star, 
To  guide  me  homeward  o'er  the  darkling  lake. 
Sweet  friends  !  I'll  greet  you  in  morn's  earliest  wake. 
Now  God  be  with  you — for  in  God  we  are. 


94  LYRICS. 

THE  LADY  IN  THE  MOON. 

(Music  by  EMMA  HAHR.) 

(ROMANZA.) 

"PWAS  moonrise  at  Luray, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Shenandoah  vale ; 
Sweet  Anne  raised  her  eyes  my  way 
And  thus  my  credence  did  assail : 

"  There  is  never  a  man  in  the  moon,"  quoth  she, 
But  a  lady,  as  plain  as  a  lady  can  be." 
"Oho  ! ''  said  I — and  the  mystery 
Of  the  moon's  soft  charm  was  clear  to  me. 

Sweet  Anne  left  me.     We  builded  a  bridge 

Of  kisses  over  the  stern  Blue  Ridge. 

And  every  night  at  moonrise  she 

Cometh  back  over  that  bridge  to  me, — 

Over  the  mountain,  the  vale  and  the  lea, 
This  sweet  moon-lady  that  dwells  by  the  sea. 

IN  THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

T*HRO'  all  those  mystic  chambers  subterrene, 

Uncharm'd   I   pass'd,  till   'neath  the  "  Angel's 

Wing," 
That  sentinels  the  "  Grand  Cathedral  "  door, 

I  paus'd,  and  heard  the  "  Organ ''  play  within 
A  soft  Te  Deum, — for  this  seem'd  to  bring 
Down  Heaven  where  Hell  was  pictur'd  hereto- 
fore. 

But  in  those  mystic  chambers  subterrene 

Was  something  I  could  better  understand — 

Something  to  text  a  sermon  from,  I  ween  : 

The  "  Ballroom  "  with  the  "  Graveyard ''  close  at  hand. 


O1 


LYRICS.  95 

AN  UNSUNG  SONG. 

I  FOR  the  art 

To  utter  my  heart ! 
In  it  now  nutter  thoughts  sweeter,  I  ween, 
Than  ever  entangled  in  rhythm  were  seen, 
Which  into  expression  no  coaxing  will  start. 

Sentiments  sweeter, 

Purer,  completer, 

Than  ever  gusht  forth  from  the  Helicon  bard 
In  melody  dulcet ;  yet— O,  it  is  hard  ! 
Persistent  they  shun  all  acquaintance  with  metre. 

Rhyme  they'll  none  of  it — 

Think  they're  above  it, 

Haply — woe's  me  !  how  the  strong  guiding  hand 
That  turn'd  glowing  thoughts  into  shape  at  command 
Of  the  Mantuan  Master  this  moment  I  covet. 

But  never  a  letter 

Shall  hold  you  in  fetter, 

Sweet  sentiments  born  in  my  bosom  to-night 
Unutterable.     Well,  peradventure  'tis  right. 
At  least  for  your  presence  I  feel  I'm  the  better. 

MY  DREAM. 

T  LOVE  you,  I  love  you.    They  call  you  my  dream ; 

And  you  are ;  I  know  it  by  one  true  test : 
Toil  how  I  may  thro'  the  long  happy  day, 
My  dreaming  hours  are  my  best. 

My  Dream  !  O  my  Dream,  my  beautiful  Dream  ! 
My  dream  of  heaven-on-earth  come  true ! 
They  can  no  more  keep  you  out  of  my  sleep 
Than  they  keep  out  of  roses  the  dew  j 


They  can  no  more  bar  you  out  of  my  prayer 
Than  they  bar  out  of  heaven  the  blue. 

My  Dream — yes,  my  Dream — my  one  true  Dream, 
That  out  of  sleep's  valley  dawn'd  none  too  soon  ; 
They  can  no  more  shut  you  out  of  my  hope 
Than  they  shut  out  the  roses  from  June ; 
They  can  no  more  bar  you  out  of  my  life 
Than  they  bar  the  tides  from  the  moon ! 

My  day-dream,  my  night-dream,  my  dream-within- 

dreams, 

The  one  dream  of  warning  I  watch  for  and  heed. 
And  my  one  wish  supreme,  my  beautiful  Dream, 
Is  to  live  my  way  up  to  thy  need — 
By  silence,  by  song,  be  the  way  short  or  long, 
By  patience,  by  prayer — whatever  the  stair, 
To  climb  my  way  up  to  thy  need. 

"MY   LOVE   FOR  YOU  IS    LIKE  A   CANDLE 

BURNING." 
MY  love  for  you  is  like  a  candle  burning 

/  In  a  dark  room — your  all  that  shows  the  way ; 
Emerg'd  now  in  the  light  of  entering  day, 
'Tis  set  aside  to  await  the  night's  returning. 

My  love  for  you  is  like  a  star  in  heaven, — 
Day  dawns,  'tis  needed  not  and  seems  to  die  ; 
And  yet  it  waits  there  calmly  in  the  sky 

To  guide  you  homeward  thro'  the  darkling  even. 

Thus  would  I  have  my  love  for  you  remain. 

'Tis  friendship's  better  part.  The  whole  world  may 
Rejoice  with  you  when  all  is  glad  and  gay, 

But  let  me  be  your  balm  in  hour  of  pain. 


97 


LILIES  FOR  THE  BABY'S  GRAVE. 

A  S  a  pearl  tost  by  the  wave. 

As  a  star  that  melts  in  day, 
So  the  baby  pass'd  away. 
Lilies  for  the  baby's  grave. 

As  a  pearl  tost  by  the  wave 

From  the  world's  great  shore  of  doubt, 

So  the  little  life  tost  out. 

Lilies  for  the  baby's  grave. 

As  a  star  that  melts  in  day 
Seems  to  lose  the  light  it  gave, 
So  the  baby  pass'd  away. 
Lilies  for  the  baby's  grave. 

WELCOME,  BABY  MARGARET. 

MARGARET:  "A  PEARL." 

WELCOME,  Baby  Margaret, 

From  the  golden  shores  of  God- 
Little  pearl  of  comfort  set 

In  bereaved  Motherhood. 


WITH  TERPSICHORE. 

THE  NATIONAL  DANCES— WALTZ. 

[German   movement,  with  Florentine  Chanson — Anacreontic.] 

rtiNL-two-three,  one-two-three, 

Drain  the  grace-cup  with  me- 
Waltzing,  sweet  waltzing  is  love's  oratory— so 

One-two-three,  one-two-three, 

Drain  the  grace-cup  with  me — 
Let  old  Fame,  let  old  Fame  have  all  her  glory — O  ! 

One-two-three,  one-two-three^ 

Drain  the  grace-cup  with  me, 
Let  old  War,  let  old  War,  have  all  his  victory. 

One-two-three,  one-two-three, 

Drain  the  grace-cup  with  me — 
Give  us  sweet  Bacchus  and  tripping  Terpsichore ! 


W 


VESUVIENNE. 
(FRENCH  MOVEMENT.) 
HAT  is  love  but  a  dream? 


What  is  fame  but  a  chance  ? 
What  is  toil  but  a  scheme  ? 
What  is  life  but  a  dance  ? — 
To  the  right  now,  to  the  left  now, 

To  the  right  now  again. 
Then  trip  with  me,  skip  with  me 
Over  the  green ! 


What  is  sighing  but  sin  ? 
What  is  grieving  but  wrong  ? 
The  heart  that  would  win 
Must  carry  a  song— 

To  the  right  now,  to  the  left  now, 

To  the  right  now  again. 
Then  sigh  no  more,  cry  no  more, 

On  my  heart  lean, 
And  trip  with  me,  skip  with  me 

Over  life's  green. 

POLKA.* 

(BOHEMIAN  MOVEMENT.) 
One-and  hvo-and-three-and-four-and 
One,  two,  three,  four, 
PjANC'D  a  wicked  peasant  girl 

All  on  a  Sunday's  eve. 
The  schoolmaster  so  charmed  was, 
He  set  the  dance  to  bars,  alas — 
Now  would  you  it  believe, 

And  would  you  it  believe  ! — 
He  slipt  it  off  to  Paristown, 
Where  Prague,  that  master  of  renown, 
Danced  it  before  the  wicked  \vorld 
All  on  a  Sunday's  eve. 

It  soon  became  a  great  encore, 
This  one-and-two-and-three-and-fourt 

One,  two,  three,  four, 
And  would  you  it  believe, 

*  According  to  Czosnowski. 


100 


Now  would  you  it  believe? 

It  swept  the  town  in  seven  days 

And  soon  became  the  nation's  craze, 
And  even  skipt  the  Atlantic  wave 
And — would  you  it  believe  ? — 
Old  Ocean  did  to  listen  stop, 
While  hemispheres  lockt  arms  to  rock 

This  one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and 
One,  two,  three,  four, 

This  dance  the  wicked  peasant  girl 
Made  on  a  Sunday's  eve. 

MAZOURKA. 

(POLISH  MOVEMENT.  ) 

Tune,  "  Black  Key  Mazourka." 

Bi-e-ld-ski,   Sar-bi-ews'-ki,   Ma-sal-ski,   and 

Se -mi-ens' -ki* 

'THOSE  renowned  Polish  poets  whom 

we  all  adore, 
Decided  they  would  fashion, 

fashion, 
In  honor  of  the  nation, 

nation, 

A  dance  of  such  gyration — 
— ration 
As  never  was  danced  before. 

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and, 

One-and-two  and-three-and-four-andy 

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and, 

One,  two,  three,  four. 


LYRICS.  101 

When  with  a  dedication, 

— cation, 

They  gave  it  to  the  nation, 
nation, 

With  Pole-to- Pole  gyration, 
— ration, 
It  made  a  great/w0r. 

It  soon  became  the  fashion, 

fashion, 
And  all  the  wide  creation, 

— ation, 
With  mighty  acclamation, 

— mation 

Gave  to  it  the  floor, — 
This  one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and,  etc. 

FISHER'S  HORNPIPE. 

(SCOTTISH  MOVEMENT.) 

POME  all  ye  sighing  lasses,  while  old  Time 

So  slily  passes — 
He  is  niching  all  your  roses  while  you 

Sigh  your  hearts  away, — 
Come  let  your  wee  feet  twinkle  to 

My  hurdy-gurdy's  tinkle, 
Or  with  crow's  feet  he  will  wrinkle  you 

And  sprinkle  you  with  gray. 

Unbind  your  bonnie  tresses  to  the 

Laddies'  soft  caresses — 
They  have  sigh'd  for  you  and  cried 

For  you  and  all  but  died  away, — 


102 


Let  your  double  feet  now  twinkle 

To  my  hurdy-gurdy's  tinkle, 

Or  with  crow's  feet  Time  will  wrinkle 

You  and  sprinkle  you  with  gray. 

RAQUET. 

(AMERICAN  MOVEMENT.) 
POME,  love,  and  glide  with  me — 

Over  the  bowling  green, 
One-two  and  one-two-three — 
Hearts  and  hands  are  clean. 

Sweet  blows  the  myrtle  tree, 

Stars  shine  down  serene — 
One-two  and  one-two-three — 

Over  the  bowling  green. 

Bright  seems  the  world  to  me 
When  on  my  heart  you  lean — 

One-two  and  one-two  three — 
Hearts  and  hands  are  clean. 

Then  come,  love,  and  dwell  with  me—- 
Be my  spirit's  queen —  *  * 

Come  glide  thro'  life  with  me 
Over  the  bowling  green — 

One-two  and  one-two-three ', 
Over  the  bowling  green. 


103 


WITH  THALIA. 


A  WORD   FOR  SAPPHO. 
A  WORD  for  Sappho.     Not  to  paean 

Her  suicide  for  love  of  Phaon — 
A  slanderous  myth  !  research  will  prove- 
Not  but  sweet  Sappho  died  of  love, 
But  died  as  Hugo  says  to  do  it : 
1  To  die  of  love  is  to  live  thro'  it" 

Thus  Sappho  died  of  love  for  Phaon ; 
Wherefore  I  lift  mine  humble  paean 
To  prove  the  Sapphic  head  was  level, 
Tho'  Sapphic  feet  in  strophe  revel. 

True,  into  exile  was  she  sent, 
But  there  are  poets  most  content — 
I  doubt  me  not  sweet  Sappho  went 

Exiled  from  what ?  "The  vulgar  herd. " 
At  home  with  the  Sicilian  bird, 
She  stroll' d  the  sylvan  solitude, 
And  nurs'd  her  soft  erotic  mood, 
And  harp'd  an  Aphroditean  ode 
To  thrill  the  coming  centuries'  blood, 
And  drew  from  heaven  such  pure  satire 
As  set  the  classic  globe  on  fire, 
And  right  and  left  such  strophes  hurl'd 
As  set  a  measure  for  the  world  ! 


104  LYRICS. 

Whilst  Phaon,  I  dare  say,  crept  apart 

And  died,  man-like,  of  a  broken  heart ! 

Or  haply  'twas  his  neck  he  broke 

Leaping  from  that  "  Leucadian  rock  " — 

On  fame  his  solitary  claim 

That  once  sweet  Sappho  smiled  on  him — 

That  peerless  gem  of  Mytillene 

Who  smiles  thro'  century-mists  serene. 

To-day  all  poets  to  Sappho  fly 
Who  would  artistically  sigh, 
All  lovers  true  to  Sappho  hie 
When  they  would  classically  "die." 
For,  know,  as  doth  a  poet  behoove, 
The  peerless  Sappho  died  of  love — 
But  died  as  Hugo  says  to  do  it : 
"  To  die  of  love  is  to  live  thro*  it." 

JAMESTOWN  WEED'S  REVENGE. 
A  COMEDY  OF  Two  CONTINENTS. 

IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

ACT  I. 

JAMESTOWN  weed  sprung  up  in  the  corn 
Down  at  the  edge  of  a  Georgia  cornfield ; 
She  wrapp'd  her  'round  with  a  prickly  shield — 
Said  she,  "  I  am  proud,  tho'  I  be  low-born. 
Let  the  rabble  corn  stretch  forth,  if  it  will, 
Its  tassel'd  head  and  its  welcoming  arms ; 
I  will  hide  from  the  vulgar  world  my  charms, 
And  never  my  heart  shall  they  grind  in   the 
mill  "— 

Said  Jamestown  Weed. 


LYRICS.  105 

Now  a  great  dame,  come  from  a  foreign  land, 
Pass'd  one  day  thro'  the  Georgia  cornfield  ; 
And  Jamestown  Weed  threw  up  her  shield 
And  lifted  her  lily  cup  in  her  hand. 

The  great  dame   paused,  'twixt  a  smile  and  a 
frown, 

Half  in  scorn,  half  ecstasy — 

"  I  will  carry  you  home  to  Londontown 

And  enter  you  into  Society," 

The  great  dame  said. 

ACT  II. 

Now  in  Londontown  they  do  wonderful  things. 

I  am  told  that,  without  impropriety, 

In  their  great  Hothouse  of  Society, 

They  cultivate  angels — just  minus  the  wings. 

There    they   rob  Autumn's    bosom   of   flowers    for 

Spring's, 

In  October's  hair  they  stick  daffodowndillies, 
Old  Winter  they  deck  out  in  roses  and  lilies — 
O,  in  Londontown  they  do  wonderful  things  I 

Man  has  taken  the  weather  out  of  God's  hands, 
And  storm  and  tide  pass  under  his  rod 
As  they  used  to  yield  to  the  beckon  of  God — 
They  have  only  to  loosen  Orion's  bands 

In  Londontown. 

Oh  !  you  never  had  known  poor  Jamestown  Weed, 
Had  you  seen  her  there  with  her  proud  arch'd  neck 
And  her  lovely  complexion  with  never  a  speck 
Nor  a  freckle  to  mar, — and  her  well-pois'd  head. 


106  LYRICS. 

And  her  Queen  Anne  collar  of  velvety  green, 
And  her  mantle  she  stood  so  statelily  in, 
Fastened  about  her  with  never  a  pin ! — 
Ah !  but  she  looked  like  a  very  born  queen. 

Poor  Jamestown  Weed !  had  you  only  but  held 
Your  breath  when  the  great  dame  ventured  the  touch 
Of   her  blueblooded   nose — you    might    now    have 

swelled 
On  that  great    dame's    breast    'neath    a   diamond 

brooch. 

But  barely  her  highness  had  lifted  you  up 
•Than  over  her  senses  the  memory  came 
Of  a  prickly  weed  and  a  vulgar  name 
And  a  noxious  draught  from  a  cornfield  cup. 

And  so  to  the  pavement  she  fillipt  you  down, 
With  an  air  of  contempt,  "  O  blood  will  tell ! 
That  vulgar,  that  vile  continental  smell ! 
'Twas  folly  to  bring  you  to  Londontown  I  " 

The  great  dame  said. 

Better  to  be  in  the  cornfield  still, 

Poor  Jamestown  Weed !  hiding  under  the  corn — 

Better  by  far  to  have  never  been  born — 

Or  to  have  your  heart  ground  up  in  the  mill, 

Poor  Jamestown  Weed. 

ACT  III. 

Now  the  great  dame's  Doctor,  chancing  that  way, 
Slipt  his  heel  upon  Jamestown  Weed, 
So  as  to  make  her  poor  heart  bleed, 
Red  blood  mixed  with  an  English  gray. 


LYRICS.  107 

First  some  very  undoctorly  words  he  said, 
Then  his  pellet  eyes  rolled  in  visions  of  glory, 
"  I  will  carry  you  home  to  my  laboratory, 
And  make  you  in  pellets  to  raise  the  dead" — 
That  Doctor  said. 

ACT  IV. 

Now  that  very  same  day,  so  the  townspeople  tell  it, 
The  great  dame,  seized  with  a  violent  rack 
All  down  her  chest  and  her  neck  and  her  back, 
Sends  for  her  Doctor  to  fly  with  a  pellet. 

And  the  Doctor  is  there  in  a  cat's  eye-winking 

(For  when  great    dames   call  good   doctors    come 

quick), 

And  he  finds  the  great  dame  sick,  very  sick — 
Indeed  the  great  dame  is  rapidly  sinking. 

"Quick,  Doctor!  good  Doctor  I  I'm  dying  fast  I" 
So  Jamestown  Weed  in  her  little  coat 
Of  sugar  slips  down  that  great  dame's  throat, 
Saying,  "  Oho !  my  time  has  come  at  last  I  " 

The  great  dame's  Doctor  is  holding  his  breath, 
And  the  great  dame  is  clutching  the  good  Doctor 

tight. 

Says  Jamestown  Weed,  "  Shall  I  kill  her  outright, 
Or  shall  I  make  it  a  lingering  death  ? '' 

Now  she  doubled  her  up — now  she  soothed  her  a  spell, 
But  the  very  next  moment,  so  I  have  been  told 
(For  weeds  sometimes  have  hearts  of  gold), 
The  great  dame  sprang  to  her  feet  sound-well  I 


108  LYRICS. 

"  O  Doctor !  what  wonderful  pill  have  we  here ! " 
"  Stramonium,  madam — the  more  vulgar  name 
Is  '  Jimwn?  a  field-weed  " — But  here  the  great  dame 
Sends  a  shriek  thro' the  rafters,  "O  dear  I    and  O 
Dear !  1— 

"  That  weed  with  the  vile  continental  smell  t 
I  picked  up  and  foolishly  thought  to  refine — 
Do  you  mean,  sir,  to  say  I  have  taken  her  in  f  " 
And  back  in  the  bed  in  a  spasm  she  fell. 

"Not  so  fasti'*  said   the  Doctor,   well-arm'd  in   a 

minute — 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  seems  to  be — 
You  have  swallow'd  one  of  the  F.  F.  V., 
With  a  strain  of  the  real  Pocahontas  blood  in  it! " 

AcrV. 

Passers  by  now  observe  in  the  great  dame's  boudoir 
A  pale  stately  bloom,  which  she  calls  Queen  de  Lis, 
And  kisses  in  passing,  and  makes  pot-pourri 
Of  its  leaves,  as  they  fall,  for  her  jewel'd  rose-jar. 

Her  good  doctor  now  she  needs  never  to  call, 
And  she  cares  less  and  less  for  Sociejty, 
As  she  gives  all  her  heart  to  her  sweet  protege — 
Whose  breeding  dates  back  as  far  as  St.  Paul. 

PRETTY  CAPRICE. 

(Capra:  A  Goat ) 

pRETTY  Caprice  rusht  down  to  the  lake 
To  drown  herself  for  love's  own  sake; 
For  her  lover  was  false,  they  said, 
And  why  not,  then,  be  dead  ? 


LYRICS.  109 

Pretty  Caprice  had  not  rusht  far 
When  she  stumpt  her  toe  on  a  broken  jar, 
And  hoppt  back  to  the  house  to  have 
It  doctor' d  with  Grandpa's  salve. 

Pretty  Caprice  got  just  to  the  door 

When  she  thought  of  her  visit  to  the  poor 
That  she  had  not  made  that  week — 
So  she  hasten'd  her  basket  to  seek. 

Pretty  Caprice  on  her  way  td  the  cupboard, 
Espying  her  cheese-cloth  Mother  Hubbard, 
Straightway  began  to  gape, 
And  crawled  to  her  room  for  a  nap. 

Now  pretty  Caprice  had  done  all  this 

And  twenty  things  else,  the  notional  miss, 
When  unto  her  mind  it  occurr'd 
That  maybe  her  neighbor  had  err'd — 

Yes !  the  envious  thing !  she  had  slander'd  her  lover ! 
So  she  snatcht  up  her  hat  and  the  street  hurried  over, 
To  challenge  Miss  Emma  Lou  Gray — 
To  a  two-handed  game  of  croquet. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  LITTLE  CORNER.  ^ 

(Dedicated  to  My  Mother.)         -^  .     1,'fjfa  c^. 

CHE  is  just  a  little  corner 
Of  red  Atlanta  clay,     , 
Too  long  to  fit  a  sonnet 
And  too  homely  for  a  lay, 
But  I  love  her;  yes,  I  lov 
And  I'll  put  her  in  my  tome, 

Because  this  little  corner 

T-  V  *T^'  "2 ~^~L  ^ ~~~i.  - 

Isjhe  key  to  mother  s^home. 


110 


Some  call  her  "  little  shoestring," 
Some  call  her  "little  snag," 
Some  call  her  "  little  matchbox,'* 
Some  call  her  ''little  thorn  ;" 
She's  a  modest  little  corner, 
And  she  knows  not  how  to  brag. 
And  she  has  too  little  brea'th,  alas ! 
To  blow  her  own  horn : 
So  she  just  accepts  these  titles, 
And  holds  on  to  her  own, 
And  some  day,  a  la  Paul,  she  may 
Become  the  chiefest  stone. 
She's  a  quiet  little  corner, 
But  when  she  needs  to  speak 
She  can  use  the  German  language, 
Or  the  Latin,  or  the  Greek  ; 
But  generally  lets  others  talk 
And  hides  her  blushing  cheek, 
And  goes  on  with  her  business 
In  a  manner  mild  and  meek. 

She's  a  fruitful  little  corner, 

And  annually  bears 

Ten  carloads  of  bananas^  . 

And  five  thousand  crates  of  pears ; 

Not  to  mention  little  lunches 

Of  bread  and  salad  made, 

And  such  harmless  little  punches 

As  sweet  milk  and  lemonade. 

She's  a  pious  little  corner 
And  careth  not  for  pelf, 
And  loves  her  gentle  neighbors 
Even  as  she  loves  herself; 


LYRICS.  Ill 

And  she  would  not,  could  she  help  it, 
Stand  in  anybody's  light, 
Nor  be  a  pebble  of  offence, 
For  that's 

Not 

Right. 

Some  day  she  may  sink  out  of  sight 
(An  earthquake  happening  by), 
And  then  again  she  may  shoot  up 
And  all  but  kiss  the  sky ; 
There  is  no  telling  now,  you  know, 
About  these  little  corners — 
Some  day  she  may  pull  up  a  plum 
As  big  as  Jacky  Horner's. 

Meanwhile  I'll  go  on  weaving 

Little  lyrics  to  adorn  her ; 

For  some  day  Pussy's  sure  to  come, 

And  "Pussy  wants  a  corner." 

But  if  she  wants  it  badly 

She  will  have  to  wait  and  labor, 

And  sing  that  psalm  of  life  that  sprung 

From  dear  Longfellow's  Faber — 

For  this  timid  little  corner 

Might  say, 

"Next 

Door 

Neighbor." 

She's  a  happy  little  corner. 
Once  she  stood  all  alone, 
With  no  strong  arm  to  support  her, 
And  she  made  a  hollow  moan, 


112  LYRICS. 

Until  an  admiring  neighbor 

Saw  her  unprotected  side 

And  offered  her  his  hand  and  purse — 

"Pray,  would  she  be  his  bride?" 

She  responded,  blushing  coyly, 

"  There's  such  difference  in  our  heights — 

But  I'll  let  you  stand  beside  me — 

For  I'm  not  a  'woman's  rights' — 

I'll  be  a  sister  to  you, 

And  you  can  be  my  brother — 

I  can't  promise  to  obey  you, 

For — I'm  promised  to  another/' 

So  once  again  she's  swimming 

On  fortune's  tidal  wave, 

And  her  grateful  heart  is  brimming 

For  this  kind  support  he  gave. 

Yes,  she's  just  a  little  corner 
Of  red  Atlanta  clay, 
Too  long  to  fit  a  sonnet, 
And  too  homely  for-a  lay; 
But  I  love  her;  yes,  1  love  her, 
And  I'll  put  her  in  my  tome, 
For  this  precious  little  corner 
Is  the  key  to  mother's  home. 

ALBOIN  AND  ROSAMOND. 
UIGH  run  the  revel.     'Round  the  spacious  board 
Capacious  bowls  of  Bacchus  sparkling  pour' d. 
"The  skull  of  Cunnimund  !  "  Alboin  cried. 
A  courtier  instant  placed  it  at  his  side. 
A  ghastly  sight !   yet  splendid — where  once  beam'd 
The  warrior's  eyes,  two  blood-red  rubies  gleam' d. 


LYRICS.  113 

All  rimm'd  around  it  was  with  Ophir's  gold, 
The  royal  coat-of-arms  thereon  inscrolPd. 
(Alboin's  hand  it  was  had  laid  him  low, 
In  jealousy  of  Rosamond's  devotion.)     "Now  ' 
Bid  my  fair  spouse, ' '  he  cried, ' '  the  feast  to  join, 
From  her  mourn"  d  sire's  skull  to  sip  sweet  wine" 
With  agonizing  rage  cag'd  in  her  breast, 
Fair  Rosamond  obeisance  thus  exprest : 
"  Thy  will,  my  liege,  my  privilege  'tis  to  obey  ;  " 
But  e'er  her  lips,  all  quivering,  touch' d  the  clay, 
A  silent  vow  they  made,  the  insult  should 
That  day  be  wiped  out  with  Alboin's  blood. 

The  banquet  o'er,  the  Emperor,  drows'd  with  drink, 

Betakes  him  to  his  couch,  in  rest  to  sink. 

His  anxious  spouse,  to  insure  her  lord's  repose, 

Charges  the  palace  guard  the  gates  to  close ; 

Now  sinks  beside  his  couch  and  smoothes  his  tresses, 

Till  slumber  falls,  allur'd  by  soft  caresses. 

But  barely  into  Lethe  hath  he  glided 

When,  lo !  the  silken  arras  are  divided — 

Out  slip  the  affrighted  colleagues,  all  in  mask, 

Urg'd  straight  to  execute  their  heinous  task. 

Now,  at  her  signal,  at  his  side  they  crouch,     [couch, 

The  Emperor,  warn'd   in  dreams,  springs  from  his 

His  hand  upon  his  trusty  broadsword  laid — 

But,  lo !  the  scabbard  fails  to  yield  the  blade. 

The  hand  of  Rosamond  hath  made  it  fast — 

And  smiling  now  she  sees  him  breathe  his  last. 

And  to  this  day  the  world  hath  to  decide, 

Which  is  in  infamy  the  deeper  dyed — 

The  Emperor,  Alboin,  or  his  bride. 


114 


IN   ZION. 


"  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH." 

AN  INVOCATION. 

DREPARE  me,   O  God,  for  the  day  Thou  hast 

spoken, 

When  the  daughters  of  music  shall  be  brought  low, 
When  the  voice  of  a  bird  shall  rise  up  as  a  token 
And  the  sound  of  the  grinding  be  distant  and  low, 
The  silver  cord  loos'd,  and  the  golden  bowl  broken, 
And  earth's  pleasant  fountains  with  bitterness  flow. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  let  me  heed  life's  conclu- 
sion, 

Ere  dust  unto  dust  I  return  to  the  sod ; 
My  will  against  thine  were  presumptuous  obtrusion, 
Soon  to  my  long  home  passing  under  thy  rod — 
'Tis  the  whole  of  man's  duty — all  else  is  confusion — 
To  love  Thee  and  keep  Thy  commandments,  O  God. 

Not  the  making  of  books  be  my  task  without  end- 
ing— 

There  is  but  one  book,  e'en  the  Book  of  Thy  Word — 
But  a  song  from  a  heart  to  be  ever  upsending 
With  praises  toward  heaven,  like  the  song  of  a  bird, 
That  haply  some  wand'rer  may  cease  his  offending, 
To  list  to  my  lay .  and  so  turn  to  his  Lord. 


115 


WHEN  FIRST  I  ESSAY'D  QN  MY  UNTUTOR'D 
LYRE. 

"UTHEN  first  I  essay'd  on  my  untutor'd  lyre 
To  lift  to  Thee,  O  Pure  and  Undefiled, 
A  psalm,  I  falter'd  out,  like  Jeremiah, 

"  Lord  God,  I  cannot  speak — I  am  a  child.'' 

Then  came  a  gentle  voice,  "  Be  not  afraid — 
My  influence  shall  hover  o'er  thy  hand." 

Before  my  angel  I  bow'd  low  my  head, 
And  sang  as  inspiration  gave  command. 

Unto  my  psalm  I  said,  "O  let  thy  feet 
Be  swift  and  beautiful  upon  the  mount, 

As  one  who  brings  suspense  glad  tidings  sweet, 
Or  stricken  thirst  cool  pitchers  from  a  fount. 

Ah !  might'st  thou  woo  one  troubled  soul  to  lean 
More  surely  on  His  grace,  my  task  were  done." 

"  Nay ! ;)  interpos'd  my  angel,  with  serene 
Assurance,  "  it  were  only  just  begun." 

CHRIST  THE  LIVING  WATER. 

ANTHEM. 

UO  !  every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  foun- 
1     tain 

And  drink  the  living  water  freely  given ; 
Come  ye  that  have  no  money 
And  get  you  wine  and  honey, 

And  eat  the  bread  of  life  that  cometh  only  down 
from  heaven. 


116  LYRICS. 

O  whyfore  spend  ye  money  for  that  which   is  not 

substance  ? 

Why  labor  ye  for  that  which  cannot  fill, 
While  wine  of  inspiration 
For  every  pure  ambition 

Outgusheth  here  in  plenteous  founts  from  Zion's  holy 
hill? 

Ye  who  have  some  secret  sorrow  that  recoileth  from 

the  daylight — 

Perchance  some  fleshly  idol  turn'd  to  stone — 
Here  give  your  cross  expression, 
Here  unbosom  your  confession 

And  hide  your  sorrow's  ashes  in  the  rock  whence  ye 
were  hewn. 

Come  all  ye  toiling  multitudes,  ye  weeders  of  the 

vineyard, 

Who  sweat  while  idle  worldings  sleep  or  parley, 
Come  to  this  fount  of  blessing, 
Of  mercy  never  ceasing, 

And  get  wheat  instead   of  thistles,  and  instead  of 
cockle,  barley. 

Come  all  ye  that  mourn  in  Zion,  here  is  beauty  for 

your  ashes, 

Here  is  liberty  for  captives  of  the  sword — 
With  the  oil  of  joy  anoint  you, 
And,  as  Heaven  did  appoint  you, 
Be  ye  as  trees  of  righteousness,  the  planting  of  the 
Lord. 

Have  ye  battled  with  the  footmen  ?  have  ye  wrestled 
with  the  horsemen  ? 


LYRICS.  117 

Have  ye  put  your  trust  in  chariots  and  been 
thrown  ? 

Here  the  helmet  of  salvation 
Will  protect  you  from  the  passion 
Of  the  swelling  of  the  Jordan  when  "  the  wakeful 
trump ''  is  blown. 

Come  all  ye  weary-laden,  drink  the  living  water  freely ; 
The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say,  Come. 
Come  every  one  that  heareth 
And  (the  Spirit  witness  beareth) 
Be  ye  beautified  and  "clothed  upon"    with   your 
celestial  home. 

And  the  prickly  thorn  will  vanish  for  the  fir-tree's 

glad  upspringing, 

And  where  crept  the  brier  will  spread  the  myrtle-tree, 
And  while  paeans  to  Heav'n  are  winging, 
And  while  Heaven-harps  are  ringing, 
And  while  chapel-bells  are  swinging, 
Mount  Zion  will  burst  forth  singing, 
And  the  echoing  little  hills  will  skip  and  clap  their 
hands  for  glee. 

TO-DAY'S  GETHSEMANE. 

A  LONE  on  heaven-heights  His  Spirit  dwelt, 

What  time  on  earth  He  laid  His  healing  touch, 
And  O,  I  think  His  loneliness  was  such 
As  human  isolation  never  felt. 

But  came  an  hour  when,  tempted  and  earth-weary, 
He  stole  apart  unto  Gethsemane, 
With  Peter  and  the  sons  of  Zebedee, 
There  to  uplift  his  night-long  miserere. 


118  LYRICS. 


But  while  He  prayed,  they  off  to  slumber  crept, 

"  The  faithful  three  " — aye,  while  He  lifted  up 

His  eyes  to  God's  White  Throne  and  drained  His 

cup 
Of  passion,  they — even  they,  His  disciples — slept. 

Even  so  I  think  that  He  to-day  may  weep 

In  memory  of  earth's  Gethsemane, 

To  see  his  churches,  like  "  The  faithful  three," 

When  most  He  needs  them,  creeping  off  to  sleep. 


EASTER  ANTHEM. 

n  LOOK  ye !  the  floral  apostles  are  spreading 

A    scroll    of   glad  tidings   o'er  earth's    desert 

places — 

A  psalm  beatific,  in  signs  hieroglyphic, 
All  writ  by  the  roses  and  lilies  and  daisies. 

Listen  !  listen  !  Christ  is  risen ! 
Sing  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth. 

Old  things  to-day  are  vanisn'd  away— 
The  risen  Christ  hath  birth. 


The  little  lambs  heed  it  and  o'er  the  hills  speed  it, 
The  happy  hills  pass  it  apace  to  the  trees, 
The  trees  clap  it  forward  to  birds  soaring  starward, 
And  the  heavens  rediamond  it  over  the  seas. 

Listen  !  listen  !  Christ  is  risen  ! 
Sing  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth. 

Old  things  to-day  are  vanish' d  away, 

The  risen  Christ  hath  birth. 


LYRICS.  119 

THE  TREE  I  LOVE. 
[Set  to  Music  by  H.  B.  AUGUSTINE,  of  Elgin,  HI.] 
Ps.  lii.  8. 

TN  the  house  of  my  God  many  trees  there  are, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River, — 
Cedars  of  Lebanon,  rich  and  rare ; 
The  Tree  of  Life,  whose  broad  leaves  are 
For  the  healing  of  nations ;  the  fig  tree,  too, 
Once  wither' d  by  Truth,  now  by  Truth  made  new. 
But  the  tree  I  love  in  the  sacred  sod 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River 
Is  the  tree  where  the  sweet  tired  Psalmist  stood 
In  his  harp's  selak,  with  soul  a-quiver, 
Is  the  green  olive  tree  in  the  house  of  my  God. 
And  I  trust  in  His  mercy  forever  and  ever. 

KING  DAVID  DANCED. 

pROM  Obed-Edom  brought  they  out 
The  ark  of  God  with  joyful  shout. 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  sight  1 
"  Before  the  Lord,"  with  all  his  might, 

King  David  danced,  King  David  danced. 

Six  goodly  oxen  did  they  kill — 

King  David  danced, 
And  blood  of  fatlings  freely  spill — 

King  David  danced. 
With  linen  ephod  girt  about, 
With  trumpet  sound  and  joyful  shout, 
What  time  from  Obed-Edom  out 
They  brought  the  ark,  King  David  danced. 


120 


With  sackbut,  psaltery  and  cymbal, 
With  tabret,  pan-pipes,  horn  and  timbrel, 
They  play'd  a  merry  roundabout, 
And  rais'd  on  high  a  joyful  shout — 
King  David  danced. 

Michal,  Saul's  daughter,  heard  the  shout, 

And  from  her  window  glanced  out — 

King  David  danced ! 
She  righteously  did  criticise  him, 
"  And  in  her  heart  she  did  despise  him  "— 
King  David  danced. 

As  Noah  danc'd  before  his  ark, 

As  Bacchus  in  the  ages  dark, 

He  leap'd  in  wildest  revelry — 

He  skipt,  he  leapt,  he  reel'd,  he  pranc'd, 

Alas  for  human  frailty  ! 

King  David  danced. 

But  when  in  after  years  we  see 

Him  bow'd  down  in  his  agony, 

And  making  deep  and  ceaseless  moan, 

"  O  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son ! 

Would  God  that  I  had  died  for'thee  !  " 

Or  wrestling  with  his  enemies, 

Who  compass  him  about  with  lies, 

Whose  tongues  were  butter,  and  whose  words, 

Softer  than  oil,  were  yet  drawn  swords ; 

Or,  later,  'neath  the  olive  tree 

Confessing  his  humility, 

"  Even  as  a  weaned  child  I  be," 

And  trusting  God,  with  lips  that  quiver, 

"  Henceforth  forever  and  forever." 

Still  later  'neath  the  Almighty  shade 

Abiding,  calm,  and  unafraid 


121 


Of  fowler's  snare  or  arrow's  flight 
Or  terrors  that  invade  the  night, 
Trampling  the  dragon  'neath  his  feet, 
Praising  God's  loving-kindness  great, 
Lifting  on  high  his  confidence, 
Unterrorized  by  the  advance 
Of  the  night-creeping  pestilence, 
While  at  his  right  hand  thousands  fall, 
And  at  his  left  ten  thousand — all 
Our  indignation  melts  away 
Like  mist  before  the  rising  day  ; 
We  honor  him  and  love  him  so, 
That  we  forgive  his  phrenzied  shout 
What  time  from  Obed-Edom  out 
They  brought  the  ark  of  God — we  lean 
On  his  strong  harp  and  say,  What  tho', 
When  on  his  knees  he  should  have  been, 
King  David  danced  I 

GOD  MAKETH  A  WAY. 

pOR  him  who  is  fain  to  see  the  light 

God  maketh  a  way,  God  maketh  a  way. 
Came  Nicodemus  in  the  night, 
Zealous  Zaccheus  climb 'd  the  tree, 

Some  are  so  reverential  that 

They  have  only  need  to  watch  and  wait. 
For  him  who  is  fain  to  see  the  light, 
For  him  who  is  fain  to  do  the  right, 

God  maketh  a  way. 


122  LYRICS. 

HYMN. 

PATHER  Omnipotent, 

All-good,  all-glorious, 
O'er  mortal  discord 
Thy  peace  is  victorious. 

O  Thou  omniscient, 
Holy  and  perfect  One, 
Teach  us  to  image  Thee 
Thro'  thy  beloved  Son. 

Our  earthly  idols  we 
Too  long  have  serv'd — unbound, 
Now,  like  the  Prodigal, 
Husks  lying  all  around, 

Humbly  to  Thee  we  turn, 
Thy  mercy-seat  to  prove, — 
Darkness  and  death  below, 
Light  and  thy  grace  above. 

Take  our  unworthiness, 
All  that  we  have  to  give, 
Be  to  us  what  we  lack,     *  * 
Lift  us  near  Thee  to  live. 

And  when  earth's  veil  is  rent 
And  at  Thy  throne  we  kneel, 
Set  on  our  ransom'd  brows 
Thine  apostolic  seal. 

Father  Omnipotent, 
All-good,  all-glorious, 
O'er  mortal  discord 
Thy  peace  is  victorious. 


123 


O  Thou  omniscient, 
Holy  and  perfect  One, 
Teach  us  to  image  Thee 
Thro'  thy  beloved  Son. 

JORDAN. 

1QEEP-SWELLING,  muddy,  turbulent— 

A  noise  between  two  silences — 
'Twixt  Alpha  and  Omega  bent, 
A  channel  for  inharmonies. 

Upon  thy  desolate  banks  to-day 
No  lofty  citadels  arise, 
No  forests  spread  their  majesty 
To  mark  thine  ancient  victories. 

What  mad  ambition  could  have  bent 
Thy  curious  path,  like  Satan  coiled  ? — 
For  doth  not  Jeremiah  lament, 
"  How  is  the  pride  of  Jordan  spoil'd !  '* 

Here  Joshua  cleav'd  thee  with  his  host — 
Surely  some  giant  palm  must  fling 
Its  shade  here — nay  !  a  nitrous  crust, 
Thro*  which  no  grassblade  dare  upspring. 

Once  o'er  the  desert  came  a  Voice, 
"  Make  straight  the  pathway  of  the  Lord  !  '* 
But  thou  pursued' st  thy  sinuous  choice, 
Unmindful  of  the  sacred  Word. 

Lo,  here  the  dear  baptismal  spot, 

The  "  Bathing  Place  "  of  pilgrim  fame — 

Ah,  Bethabara,  one  had  not 

Known  thee  but  for  thy  treasur'd  name. 


124 


'Twas  here  the  Pure  and  Undefiled, 
By  way  of  apostolic  grace, 
Humbling  him  as  a  little  child, 
Suffer" d  thy  wave  to  sweep  His  face. 

Certes  here  blows  some  asphodel, 
Some  lily-bloom,  to  mark  the  place 
Where  the  baptismal  water  fell 
In  sacred  drops  from  His  pure  face. 

Nay  1  slime  pits,  thermal  springs,  and  thistle, 
A  few  weird  stalks  of  hollyhock, 
While  overhead  the  bitterns  whistle, 
Or  nest  in  crags  of  basalt  rock. 

O  basest  of  ingratitude, 
Not  to  outblossom  here  thy  thanks  ! 
But  to  blaspheme  thy  bitterest  mood 
Against  thy  cold,  unconscious  banks. 

And  must  we  cross  thee  in  the  end, 
Dark  Jordan — brave  thy  mysteries, 
Or  ere  our  ransom' d  souls  ascend 
The  sacred  Beulah-heights  of  bliss  ? 

If  in  the  land  of  peace  wherein 
We  trusted,  we  have  weariedly 
Let  fall  the  oars  on  waves  serene, 
How  shall  we  ford  thee  in  that  day  ? — 

Deep-swelling,  muddy,  in  eclipse, 
A  noise  between  two  silences — 
'Twixt  Genesis  and  Apocalypse, 
A  channel  for  inharmonies. 


125 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  NORTH  GEORGIA. 

MIDNIGHT  ON  THE   BALD. 
"TIS  midnight  on  "the  Bald"— 

And  O  !  for  Poe  and  power — 
In  a  fine  rage  on  Fancy's  page 
To  flash  this  matchless  hour. 

Lo,  where  the  raven  Night 

Doth  flap  her  ebon  wing, 
And  o'er  the  edge  of  the  hoar  Blue  Ridge 

Cimmerian  shadows  fling — 

Now  from  'neath  beetling  brows 

A  lanced  summons  thrust, 
Rallying  the  winds  from  the  earth's  four  ends 

To  meet  in  tournament-joust. 

Hist,  where  they  come  in  a  trice ! — 

Boreas,  Cy clops-wheel' d, 
The  foaming  East,  and  the  panting  West, 

With  the  eye  of  Jove  in  his  shield !  — 

And — bravest  afield,  I  trow — 

With  shy  Eolian  sallies, 
The  low-voic'd  South,  with  her  roseate  mouth, 

Trippeth  it  over  the  valleys. 
Georgia  and  Tennessee, 

The  Carolina  twins, 
And  old  Alabama,  gaze  on  the  drama 

From  the  surrounding  plains. 


126  LYRICS. 

It  all  began  in  sport, 

As  many  a  joust  of  yore, 
In  round-table  days,  but  it  endeth  in  craze 

And  fuel  and  duel  and  gore  ! 

" Blood  Mountain"  gappeth  afresh, 

There  on  her  scar-seam'd  side ; 
And  "  Double  Knobs,"  with  throes  and  sobs, 

Opeth  his  hell-gates  wide. 

Thrice  do  I  see  a  head 

Of  Cerberus  protrude, 
Thrice  hear  a  bark,  thro'  the  lurid  dark, 

Of  hell-hounds  thirsting  blood. 

With  a  voiceless  prayer  I  turn 

And  lean  up  thro'  the  skies 
To  the  seventh  Heaven  ;  and  my  soul  is  shriven 

Straightway  of  its  agonies. 

Joy !  and  the  world  is  God's — 
The  sweet  South  is  prevailing ! — 

And  calm  on  the  breast  of  the  rainbow' d  West, 
Queen  Cynthia  is  sailing. 

CYNTHIA. 

pYNTHIA !  next  woman  best-lov'd  of  my  muse, 
V    Whose  smile,  discovering  hers,  is  all  I  ask 
To  prove  that  heaven  sometimes  deigns  to  earth — 
Celestial  Arbitress  !  who  in  the  same 
Undeviate  path  mine  infant  vision  traced, 
Pursuest  even  now  thy  smiling  course 
How  dost  thou  teach  a  lesson  to  my  soul 
Of  perseverance  and  of  constancy  ! 


127 


Who  callest  thee  inconstant  doth  but  view 
Thee  superficially — a  narrow  thought ! — 
Let  him  but  turn  back  contemplation's  eye 
Upon  thine  ancient  record,  and  he  stands 
Abash' d  at  his  misjudgment. 

Fail'st  thou  yet 

Ever  to  bring  the  seasons  in  due  course 
Of  sequence,  throughout  all  the  centuried  years 
That  thou  hast  calendar'd  in  the  tome  of  time  ? 
Ever  to  welcome  in  the  marching  months, 
Each  at  his  several  mile-post,  in  their  rounds 
Zodiacal  ?     To  pour  thy  pitying  urn 
Of  balm  on  January's  winding-sheets? 
To  wave  o'er  February's  miserere 
Thy  crystal  wand  of  promise  ?  with  calm  gaze 
To  charm  the  savage  breast  of  lion  March 
To  lamblikeness  ?  to  float  thy  crescent  arc 
O'er  April's  flood-tide  of  despondency  ? 
In  sweet  May's  hyacynthine  locks  to  set 
A  silver  comb  ?  to  shed  thine  influence 
In  gracious  streams  on  June,  thy  chosen  one  ? 
To  throw  an  odorous  spray  of  pearly  dews 
On  July's  feverish  pillow?  or  to  press 
To  August's  parched  lips  an  ample  urn 
Of  golden  nectar  ?  'Round  September's  shrine 
To  softly  swing  an  incense  lamp  of  prayer  ? 
To  spread  a  benediction-halo  round 
October's  brow,  as  o'er  the  harvest  fields 
Rejoicingly  she  came  forth,  bringing  sheaves  ? 
To  badge  November's  melancholy  breast 
With  opaline  insignia  of  hope  ? 
To  pin  with  topaz  brooch  December's  cloak 
About  his  shivering  limbs  as  he  went  down 
The  tottering  steep  to  fill  his  vault  of  ice  ? 


128  LYRICS. 

Or  fail'st  them  ever  yet  to  bring  the  tide 
At  the  appointed  hour  back  to  the  shore 
Expectant  ?    Nay  ;  not  even  when  thou  dost  hide 
The  favor  of  thy  countenance  from  this  spot 
Infinitesimal  of  God's  universe, 
That  holds  our  horoscope,  even  while  thy  smile 
Charmeth  our  sister  hemisphere,  thy  thought 
Is  for  our  vantage  and  protection. 

Inconstant!     Thou  art  constancy's  own  mould. 

What  tho'  thou  proteanly  adjust  thy  mood 

To  suit  thy  journeying' s  convenience  ? 

Thy  very  phases  are  reliable 

And  spring  not  unawares,  but  rather  greet 

The  anticipatory  eye,  outwearied  with 

The  unvarying  roundness  of  the  heavenly  host. 

What  time  thou'rt  "  new/'    thy  crescent  symboleth 

hope ; 

What  time  thou'rt  "  waxing,"  thou'rt  developing, 
As  interesting  things  must  needs  be  doing  ; 
We  admire  thy  "half  for  that  we  miss  thy  whole  ; 
Thy  glorious  "  full ''  doth  challenge  optic  skill 
By  any  common  measurement  to*  gauge 
Its  puzzling  amplitude,  as  it  doth  mount 
The  horizontal  distance,  backgrounding 
Acres  of  forests,  or  outlining  clear 
Against  its  blaze  some  dim  cathedral  tower  ; 
Thy  "  wane  " — ah  !    thou  art  loveliest  on  the  wane, 
As  all  earth's  blessings  are.     How  oft  we  cheat 
The  midnight  couch  of  sleep  to  watch  thee  waste 
Thy  lovely  self  away  in  heaven's  wilds, 
As  thou  wert  grown  aweary  of  the  world 
In  all  its  curtain'd  sinfulness,  and  would' st 
Withdraw  into  thy  grave-clothes,  lest  thou  shame, 


129 


By  lingering  here,  Diana's  memory. 

Thy  day-ghost  fascinates  me  most  of  all — 

The  very  height  of  its  audacity  ! 

To  face  day's  very  monarch  on  his  throne 

And  smiling  say,  I  borrowed  beams  of  thee 

All  thro*  the  night,  and  now  I  lend  thee  back 

These  borrow'd  rays  to  help  thee  light  the  day  ! 

Sweet  Cynthia,  empress  of  my  dreams  !  what  tho' 

Thou'rt  but  a  satellite  ?  since  thou  dost  tend 

Thy  part  of  th'  empyrean  vineyard  well  : 

Remove  his  satellite,  our  sun  is  shorn 

Of  half  his  glory — 'twere  to  clip 

His  locks  ambrosial  on  his  midnight  couch. 

What  tho'  'neath  scientific  scrutiny 

Thy  heart  be  hollow  and  thy  face  be  scarred 

With  ancient  warfare  ?     What  tho'  on  thy  brow 

Old  Superstition  hath  instamp'd  a  man 

Forever  burning  brush  ?  The  poet's  eye 

Seeth  thee  only  as  the  Lady  Moon, 

Fickle,  but  ever  thro'  thy  fickleness 

Unchanging,  constant  thro'  inconstancy, 

Consistent  e'en  in  inconsistency, 

A  charming  paradoxical  mystery. 

I  know  a  lady  so — I  love  her  well — 

Rely  upon  her  utterly,  and  wait 

With  tender  interest  her  to-and-fro 

Excursions  o'er  my  being's  horoscope. 

Like  Bailey's  "  Festus  "  and  like  thee,  fair  Queen  ! 

She  is  inconsistent — "so  was  meant  to  be'' — 

Hath  flung  away  that  overrated  jewel, 

Consistency  (if  e'er  she  wore  it)  for 

That  pearl  of  greater  price,  humility. 

9 


130  LYRICS. 

Aye,  me !   sweet  Cynthia — dost  leave  me  so, 

In  very  height  of  rapport  with  thy  charms  ? 

'Tis  like  thee  !      Dost  thou  with  nereidian  grace 

Mount  yonder  sea-horse  cloud  and  bound  away 

O'er  billowy  waves  of  foam  just  touched  with  rose 

By  Aurora's  finger-tips — dost  bound  and  sink 

Down,  down  into  the  liquid  depths  of  space, 

Leaving  behind  a  silver  trail  of  peace? 

Ah !  well — 'tis  well !  Thou  hast  left  me  thus  before. 

Nay  !  there  she  floateth — see  her  silver  crest 

Just  rising  o'er  the  foam  !  she  turneth  half 

Her  face  to  me  in  lingering  farewell — 

Her  lady  face !  for  modern  fancy  hath 

Rebell'd  'gainst  ancient  superstition, 

Outpluck'd  the  man  and  cameo'd  there  instead 

A  lady's  classic  profile — so  I  toss 

Thee  au  revoir,  sweet  Cynthia,  on  this  kiss. 

OLD  FATHER  CORN. 
pOURSCORE,  and  feeble  of  limb, 

He  sits  in  his  vine- wreath' d  door, 
And  smiles  and  croons  his'  melodious  hymn, 
Blest  like  the  hermits  of  yore. 

Over  a  life  well  spent, 

He  broods  with  pious  pride, 
His  residue  of  days  content 

To  rest  in  the  mountain  side. 

Within  a  radius  'round 

Of  thirty  miles  his  legions 
Of  Baptist  tracts  have  strewn  the  ground 

Of  these  benighted  regions. 


131 


Aye,  every  desert  place, 
And  bottom-ground  plantation, 

Can  boast  its  sinner  brought  to  grace 
Under  his  exhortation. 

And  every  mountain-crag 

Hath  echoed  back  his  thunder, 

And  every  creek  at  least  may  brag 
One  sinner  dipp'd  down  under 

By  good  old  Father  Corn. 

Long  may  this  gray-hair'd  voyager 
Live  to  illumine  and  adorn 

The  mountains  of  North  Georgia. 

SONG  OF  A  MOUNTAIN  MAIDEN. 
OAPPHO'S  hair  was  black  as  night, 

When  the  night  is  gloomiest ; 
Helen's  like  a  tuft  of  bright 

Golden-rod  when  plumiest : 
But  nor  Sappho  in  Mytilene, 

Nor  Helen  yet  at  Troy, 
Had  hair  so  full  of  joy,  I  ween, 

So  full  of  Keats's  joy — 
So  beautiful  forevermore, 

So  tender,  so  myrrh-laden, 
As  Ida's  gloaming  hair — my  rare, 

My  matchless  mountain  maiden  ! 

Juno's  eyes  were  sapphire-blue, 

Dante's  Beatrice's 
Chrysolite,  and  aquamarine 

Algernon's  Felice's ; 


132 


But,  nor  the  orbs  of  Jove's  delight, 

Of  Dante's  inspiration, 
Nor  Swinburne's  guiding  stars  serene, 

Could  glint  a  scintillation 
(More  magical  than  ever  flasht 

From  lantern  of  Aladdin), 
Like  Ida's  diamond  eyes — my  rare, 

My  matchless  mountain  maiden ! 

Laura's  lips  were  nectar-red, 

Meet  for  Petrarch's  kisses ; 
Sweet  to  Swift  were  Stella's,  sweet 

To  Waller  Sacharisse's; 
But  nor  the  lips  that  Petrarch  bless' d, 

Nor  those  that  made  the  Dean  glad, 
Nor  those  that  warbling  Waller  press' d, 

Such  fountain's  nectarine  had, 
A  poet's  spirit  to  refresh, 

A  poet's  heart  to  gladden, 
As  Ida's  Eden  lips — my  rare, 

My  matchless  mountain  jnaiden ! 

EYES. 
(TO  MUSIC.) 
pYES  that  dartle,  eyes  that  dare— 

„    O  the  glory  of  them ! 
Eyes  that  startle  when  I  draw  near, 

Seeing  how  I  love  them — 
Startle  and  droop  and  tremble, 

And  all  but  shut  out  my  bliss — 
Then — eyes  that  cannot  dissemble — 


LYRICS.  133 

Draw  me  in  with  a  kiss, 

Sweet  eyes  ! 
Draw  me  in  with  a  kiss. 

Eyes  that  weave  for  me  mystic  spells, 

Eyes  that  are  deep  and  fearful, 
Eyes  that  could  drown  me  in  their  wells, 

If  they  were  not  too  careful — 
That  carry  me  down,  down,  down, 

In  love's  divine  baptism, 
Only  to  lift  me  and  crown 

Me  at  last  with  love's  bright  prism, 
Pure  eyes ! 

At  last  with  love's  bright  prism. 

Eyes  that  soften  and  glint  and  glow, 

Like  sun-shot  dewdrops  golden  ; 
Eyes  that  could  pierce  me  thro'  and  thro* 

Were  they  not  love-beholden — 
Pierce  me  and  turn  me  and  chill  me, 

And  send  me  adrift — alone — 
Eyes  that  could  leave  me — and  kill  me, 

If  they  were  not  mine  own 
True  eyes ! 

If  they  were  not  mine  own. 


134 


MELODIES   IN   MINOR   KEY. 


ROSEMARY  AND   RUE. 

"  Rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance."— Shakespeare. 
"  Rue,  herb  of  grace." — Jeremy  Taylor. 

T  HAVE  a  friend.     But  one  behoves. 
I  hold  it  true,  on  this  sad  earth, 
One  friend  a  sea  of  friends  is  worth. 

Friends  change.     A  friend  at  all  times  loves. 

To  thee — my  Friend — at  all  times  true — 
Whose  wound  is  faithful  as  thy  kiss, 
I  offer,  in  deep  tenderness, 

This  ring  of  rosemary  and  rue, 

From  memory-meadows  cull'd,  on  calm 

And  solitary  starlight  eves, 

And  press' d  away  'twixt  sacred  leaves, 
Their  bitter-sweet  to  waxen  balm. 

"That's  for  remembrance  " — "  Rose  of  Mary," 
Meet  emblem  of  fidelity  ; 
And  rue,  sad  flower,  worn  anciently 
At  penitential  miserere. 

A  crown  of  bay-leaves  might  I  send, 
Of  honor  redolent  and  success— 
But  nay  !  I  ween  '  twere  valued  less 

Than  this  pale  wreath.     Take  it,  my  Friend,— 


LYRICS.  135 

Not  on  thy  silver  locks  to  set, — 
Thy  threescore  years  of  gentle  deeds 
A  softer  halo  'round  thee  sheds 

Than  ever  stream' d  from  coronet : 

Not  as  my  gratitude's  return 
For  grace  beyond  all  guerdoning  ; 
But  as  a  simple  memory-ring 

To  hang  on  Friendship's  golden  urn. 

PERSIAN  SERENADE. 

[Set  to  music  by  Edward  Von  Adelung,  of  Oakland,  Cal.]  _  ! 

TN  no  sadder  strain  than  these 

Lugubrious  minor  keys 

The  bulbul  wooes  the  climbing  rose,  O  Sweet ! 
Yet  still  to  my  soft  pleading 
Thou  turn'st  an  ear  unheeding, 
And  wonderest  why  pride  lets  me  linger  at  thy  feet. 

Sweetheart !     Sweetheart ! 

Why  avert  those  perfect  eyes  ? 

Sweetheart !     Sweetheart ! 

Take  me  into  Paradise. 
Ah  !  would  for  one  fleet  hour 
I  were  the  climbing  flower, 

And  thou  the  Persian  bulbul  perch'd  upon  my  stem  ; 
In  order  thou  might' st  see 
How  sweeter  'tis  to  be 

Prone  at  Love's  feet  than  crown'd  with  Pride's  pale 
diadem. 

Sweetheart !     Sweetheart ! 

Why  avert  those  perfect  eyes  ? 

Sweetheart !     Sweetheart ! 

Take  me — take  me  into  Paradise. 


136 


RAIN  IN  MIDSUMMER. 

'PHE  lowering  skies  were  leaden-gray — 

My  heart  was  leaden  too. 
"  O  love,"  I  said,  "  when  hope  is  dead, 

Which  way  to  look?" — "  Look  up,"  he  said. 
But  toward  the  earth  I  bent  my  head 
(As  you  would  do  if  hope  were  dead) ; 
And,  unresisting, 
Kept  on  twisting 
Wreaths  of  rue. 

The  leaden  skies  were  muttering  now — 

My  heart  was  muttering  too. 
"O  love,"  I  said,  "  when  love  is  fled, 

Which  way  to  look  ?'' — "  Look  up,"  he  said. 
But  lower  still  I  bent  my  head 
(As  you  had  done  with  cheeks  as  red), 
And,  still  persisting, 
Kept  on  twisting 
Wreaths  of  rue. 

The  muttering  skies  were  weeping  now — 

My  heart  was  weeping  too. 
"O  love,"  I  said,  "if  faith  were  dead, 

Which  way  to  look?" — "  Look  up,"  he  said. 
And  toward  the  skies  I  lift  mine  eyes 
(As  you  had  done  had  you  been  wise)— 
And  lo  !  the  riven 
Gates  of  heaven, 

Barr'd  with  blue. 


LYRICS.  137 

THE  SENSITIVE  VISITOR. 

T'HE  night  was  bitter.     Pride  and  I 

Sat  gazing  at  it  thro'  the  pane. 
Who  can  that  bold  intruder  be 
That  at  our  casement  draweth  rein  ! 

We  turn  our  faces,  Pride  and  I. 
And  yet — the  pleading  and  the  pain 
Of  that  one  look — Nay  !  out  of  view 
He's  pass'd  into  the  night  and  rain. 

Who  could  that  gallant  horseman  be  ? 
Alas  !  to-day  'tis  but  too  plain  : 
His  name  was  Opportunity. 
He  never  came  to  us  again. 

THE  MEADOWLARK. 
T  LOVE  our  melancholy  meadowlark ; 
In  dirge-like  cadency  it  must  excel 
The  transatlantic  minion,  Philomel. 
It  waiteth  not  the  lonesome  hour  of  dark 
On  its  aerial  voyage  to  embark, 
And  flood  the  world  with  a  melodious  knell 
Of  wailful  minors,  but  its  throat  will  swell 
Even  when  the  sun  is  at  his  dizziest  mark 
Of  splendor,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  unwet, 
And  pour  its  mid-May  woes  into  the  heart 
Of  men  and  roses,  lest  they  should  forget 
In  even  the  sunniest  life  death  plays  a  part. 
O  for  a  Keats  !  in  song  to  immortalize 
This  nightingale  of  our  Columbian  skies. 


138  LYRICS. 

"THE    PATH    FROM    ME   TO    THEE    THAT 

LEADS." 
'THE  path  from  me  to  thee  that  leads, 

With  teary  seed-pearls  thick  bestrewn, 
Beneath  some  vernal  silver  moon 
Will  blossom  out  in  fragrant  deeds — 

Not  sorrow-thorns  nor  passion-tares, 

For  friendship  soweth  not  such  seeds, 

But  dreams  come  true  and  answer'd  prayers — 

The  path  from  thee  to  me  that  leads. 

UNDER  THE  LAUREL. 
T  TNDER  the  laurel,  last  year's  May, 
U     We  sat  and  talked  till  the  day  went  out, 
And  you  bound  my  temples  'round  about 
With  a  wreath  of  roses  twined  with  bay — 
Roses  for  love,  and  bay  for  fame — 
For  the  costliest  treasure  at  life's  command, 
A  woman's  heart,  you  had  laid  in  my  hand — 
And  time  would  bring  me  a  sounding  name. 
Under  the  laurel,  hush,  ah^hush  ! 
Memory  lurks  in  the  laurel  bush. 

Under  the  laurel  breezes  blow 
Soft  as  they  did  in  last  year's  spring, 
But,  oh  !  what  a  different  song  they  sing, 
For,  oh  !  what  a  different  tale  they  know. 

"  Roses  for  love,  and  bay  for  fame." 

Under  the  laurel  I  sit  alone 

And  weave  a  wreath  for  a  cold  gravestone — 

And  tiime  has  brought  me  the  sounding  name. 
Under  the  laurel,  hush,  ah  hush  ! 
Memory  lurks  in  the  laurel  bush. 


139 


BETWIXT  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  MAIN. 

DETWIXT  the  mountain  and  the  main 

A  cloud  of  mist  is  creeping — 
And  she  is  high,  and  he  is  low, 
And  both  are  softly  sleeping. 

She  dreameth  on  love-restless  couch 
About  her  one  true  lover, 
Who  in  his  vessel  silver-sail'd 
The  sea  is  speeding  over. 

He  lieth  'neath  the  oozy  wave, 
But  no  deep  bell  is  tolling. 
Betwixt  the  mountain  and  the  main 
The  cloud  of  mist  is  rolling. 

The  bursting  sun,  a  signal  glad, 
Her  couch  is  golding  over ; 
She  hasteth  down  the  mountain  slope 
To  meet  her  one  true  lover. 

Betwixt  the  mountain  and  the  main 
The  cloud  of  mist  is  parted — 
And  he  is  high,  and  she  is  low, 
And  which  is  happier-hearted  ? 


FLORIDIAN  NOCTURNE. 

A    MELLOWING  moon — an  immigrating  wind, 

Laden  with  myrrh,  that  quickens  in  the  pulse 
A  sense  of  Oriental  tamarind, 
Of  golden  cinnamon  and  purple  dulse. 


140  LYRICS. 

A  fallow  marshland — hints  of  wild  florescence, 
The  cypress'  green  against  the  lemon's  white ; 
While  from  palm-thicket  comes  melodious  prescience 
Of  perfect  days  to  be  and  full  delight. 

O  love,  my  love  !  the  days  to  be  ! — 
Faith's  prescient  eye  hath  seen — 
The  days  to  be,  for  thee  and  me — 
What  recks  the  might  have  been  ? 

A  shred  of  seaweed  tangled  in  a  pearl, 
A  sigh  of  seaweeds  wafting  a  delight 
To  where  the  charitable  clouds  unfurl 
And  fold  it  evermore  from  human  sight. 

And  is  it  well  she  lies  so  stilly  calm, 
With  orange-buds  twined  in  her  hair's  soft  wave, 
While  earth  fulfils  the  promise  from  the  palm, 
And  stars  and  blossoms  gleam  above  her  grave  ? 

Aye,  love,  my  love,  the  days  to  be  ! 
Faith's  prescient  eye  hath  seen — 
The  days  to  be  for  thee  and  me 
Beyond  the  might  have  been. 

LOVE'S  WELCOMERS. 

JOY  and  Sorrow  (sisters  they) 
Hand  in  hand,  one  close  of  day, 
Walk'd  the  dappled  meadows. 
In  Joy's  footprints  dewlights  gleamed, 
Sorrow's  left  behind,  it  seemed, 
Only  streams  and  shadows. 

Much  ado  they  had,  I  trow, 
Keeping  step— one  quick,  one  slow, 


141 


One  sad,  one  happy-hearted ; 
Yet  they  are  so  close  of  kin, 
Being  twin-born,  'twould  seem  a  sin 
If  they  should  be  parted. 

"  Welcome,  Love!"  they  call  together, 
As  the  sweet  boy  bursts  the  ether 
In  the  wake  of  Venus. 
"  Truth  our  sire  sent  us  to  meet  you, 
Truth  our  sire  sent  us  to  greet  you, 
And  bring  you  home  between  us.'' 

BALLAD  OF  THE  BROKEN  TROTH. 

"AY  me  !  "  she  shivering  said, 

And  gazed  on  the  sunlit  skies  aboon, 
"Where,  clasped  in  the  scorching  arms  of  noon, 
There  floated,  cold  and  white, 
The  day-ghost  of  the  waning  moon, 
All  in  its  hearse-shroud  dight — 
All  in  its  hearse-shroud  dight. 

" '  Tis  a  passing  thought,"  she  said, 
"Of  last  year's  broken  troth,  I  ween  " 

(And  I  would  ye  had  seen  her  white  face  then, 
Ye  women  who  play  with  the  hearts  of  men  !), 
"Which  e'en  as  a  mockery  floats  between 
The  rising  and  the  setting 
Of  this  year's  love — what  might  have  been, 
To  keep  me  from  forgetting — 
To  keep  me  from  forgetting." 

"  But  I  will  forget,"  she  said, 

"  Ere  the  rosebuds  ope  on  another  June.'' 

And  she  warbled  a  snatch  of  lancers'  tune, 


142  LYRICS. 

Rounding  it  off  with  laughter. 

But  the  pale  cold  day-ghost  of  the  moon, 

Wrapped  in  the  scorching  arms  of  noon, 

Haunted  her  ever  after — 
Ever  and  ever  after. 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES. 
"  THE  past  cannot  be  changed." — No,  dear, 

But  may  be  misinterpreted. 
How  many  life-wrongs  righted  were 
If  this  dim  page  aright  we  read ! 

If  we  could  read  between  the  lines 
The  acts  of  struggle,  thoughts  of  grace 
(Not  limited  by  our  confines 
Of  human  judgment),  how  this  space, 
Illumined  by  a  light  above, 
Would  burst  in  beauties  everywhere, 
And  we  would  blush  at  our  self-love, 
And  marvel  at  our  past  despair — 
Between  the  lines, 
Between  the  lines, 
To  see  the -hidden  graces  there. 

Then  faithful  to  each  fond  ideal, 

Let  us,  sweet  friend,  turn  back  in  prayer 

And  there  search  out  the  beings  real 

Of  which  our  dreams  the  ideals  are. 

'Balm'd  in  the  Past,  pale  memory  flowers 
Beneath  the  Present's  touch  reblush, 
And  to  make  glad  the  Future's  hours 
There  stands  sweet  Art,  with  harp  and  brush. 

The  past  cannot  be  changed — but,  dear, 

How  oft  misread !     We  wait  for  signs, 


LYRICS.  143 

When  one  deep  gaze  of  faith  would  clear 
Some  mystery  between  the  lines — 
Between  the  lines, 
Between  the  lines, 
Some  mystery  between  the  lines. 

COMPROMISE. 

(In  reverse  of  Jean  Ingelow's  "  Divided.") 

TT  was  just  before  the  river  pours  into  the  mam. 

O  how  we  who  loved  stray  so  far  apart ! 
Said  he,  "  Day  closeth — loose  the  bateau  chain, 

Sail  over,  sail  over  to  me,  Sweetheart  1 " 
Said  I,  "  The  distance  is  not  wide — 

Sail  thou  over  to  my  side." 
Both  were  right  and  both  were  wrong — 
Both  were  weak  and  both  were  strong — 
As  lovers  are. 

Behind  us  mourned  the  ocean,  and  before  the  willows 

sigh'd ; 
The  day  was  closing  starless,  and  the   nightwinds 

made  us  shiver. 
So  far  from  home,  so  lonely — but  the  lover's  staff  is 

pride, 

And  the  bateau  chains  remained  unloosed  on  either 
side  the  river. 

Said  he,  "  I'll  wend  love's  way  alone.'' 
Said  I,  "Love  doth  for  love  atone." 
So  he  on  his  side,  I  on  mine, 

Turned  our  faces  tow'rd  one  shrine — 

Toward  love's  white  star. 

Ah !  but  it  was  dreary,  dreary,  walking  there  alone, 
Walking  there  alone  together  in  our  foolish  pride, 


144  LYRICS. 

A  passing  sea-wind  caught  a  human  moan 
And  intervvafted  it  from  side  to  side. 

Feet  were  sore,  and  hearts  were  bursting, 

Unkist  lips  for  kisses  thirsting, 

Still  the  river  roll'd  between  us, 

And  our  eyes  still  fixed  on  Venus 
Eastering. 

Lo  !  dawn's  milkwhite  steeds  are  furrowing  the  orient 

into  gold. 
"  Sail  halfway,  love — I'll  meet  you  in  the  middle  of 

the  river.'' 

In  one  breath  came  two  voices.    And  behold ! 
Venus  melting  with  a  quiver 
From  the  oriental  skies 
Rebeams  in  my  lover's  eyes, 
And  lo !  no  bateau  need  we  launch — 
Past  river,  rivulet,  brook  and  branch, 

We've  reach' d  the  spring. 

FIRST  GRIEF. 

T  EAVE   her   alone.      She  knows  the  flowers  are 

blooming. 

She's  saddest  when  the  rose  blows  reddest  now. 
Nay  !  weave  no  roseate  coronet  for  her  brow 
And  tell  her  it  were  regally  becoming, — 
She  would  but  feel  their  thorn-pricks,  her  redeeming, 
Like  sharp  fate  edicts,  to  unswaging  woe ; 
Their  red  were  but  a  background  for  her  glooming. 
When  God's  has  fail'd,  thy  comfort  were  presuming' 
You  have  not  loved  and  lost.     Leave  her  alone. 

Leave  her  alone.     She  knows  the  birds  are  singing, 
She's  saddest  when  the  birds  sing  maddest  now. 


LYRICS.  145 

Their  passionate  cadences  are  only  bringing 
Back  mem'ries  of  a  bliss  she  must  forego — 
An  ear  forever  deaf  to  music's  ringing, 
A  form  beneath  the  myrtle  bough's  laid  low, 
A  foot  forever  still'd  from  manhood's  springing, 
A  heart  forever  dead  to  passion's  swinging, — 
You  have  not  lost  and  loved.     Leave  her  alone. 

Leave  her  alone.     She  knows  the  sun  is  shining. 
She's  saddest  when  the  sun  shines  brightest  now. 
Swing  not  faith's  torch  'round  griefs  midnight  re- 
pining, 

'Twill  only  stagger  with  its  blinding  glow. 
Pain's  furnace-fires  are  better  for  refining, 
Albeit  they  seem  to  issue  from  below. 
Leave  her  to-day  to  agony's  consigning — 
Leave  her  to  weep,  her  myrtle  garlands  twining ; 
God  knoweth  when  to  turn  the  "  silvery  lining  " — 
Christ  when  to  lift  her  eyes.     Leave  her  alone. 

SONG  IN  ABSENCE. 

Q  WHERE  can  I  look  for  the  blue  of  her  eyes, 
And  where  for  the  silvery  light  of  her  hair  ? 
I  turn  in  vain  to  the  sunset  skies, 
In  vain  to  the  blossoming  meadows  fair — 
Nor  hue  in  heaven,  nor  hue  on  lea 
For  mine  absent  one  can  comfort  me. 

0  where  can  I  look  for  the  white  of  her  hand. 
And  where  can  I  go  for  the  balm  of  her  lips  ? 

1  turn  to  the  shells  on  the  ocean  strand 
To  the  spicy  winds  that  waft  her  ships — 

Nor  light  that  lingers  on  land  or  sea 
For  mine  absent  one  can  comfort  me. 
10 


146  LYRICS. 

O  where  shall  I  list  for  the  chime  of  her  voice, 

And  where  shall  I  seek  for  the  gold  of  her  words  ? 

Not  all  the  bells  of  Paradise, 

Nor  all  the  music  of  all  the  birds, 
Nor  gold  of  Ophir  or  Araby, 
Nor  hue  in  heaven,  nor  hue  on  lea, 
Nor  light  that  lingers  on  land  or  sea 
For  mine  absent  friend  can  comfort  me. 

LAOMI  :  A  DIRGE. 

"U7ILL  ye  tell  me,  O  birds  of  the  air, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Her  voice  was  as  clear  as  your  very  own, — 

As  soft  and  as  clear 
As  silverbells  calling  to  vesper-prayer. 
She  was  fair — so  fair — 

And  her  hair — 

'Twas  the  color  of  dusk  that  the  starlight  falls  on. 
Did  you  see  her  face,  did  you  hear  her  tone, 
In  that  beautiful  mystical  far-away  haven  to  which 
you  were  flown 

When  winter  was  here  ? — 
Will  ye  tell  me,  O  birds  of  the  air, 
Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  sweet  wild  flowers, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Her  breath  was  as  sweet  as  your  very  own, 
And  her  heart  was  as  deep  and  as  golden  as  yours. 
Has  she  wandered  off,  apart  and  alone, 
To  one  of  your  bowers, 

There  amidst  showers 
Of  sweet-scented  petals  to  lay  her  down, 
To  be  charmed  and  chain' d  by  the  golden  hours, 


LYRICS.  147 

And  circled  away  to  that  magical  island  that  know- 
eth  no  moan  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  sweet  wild  flowers, 
Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  breezes  of  even, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Her  sigh  was  as  sad  as  your  very  own, 
When  Anemone-riven 
You  were,  and  outdriven 

And  banished  by  Flora  her  queen,  jealous  grown, 
Have  you  seen  Laomi — or  heard  her  moan  ? 

Have  you  woo'd  her  and  shriven 
Her  sorrow  and  given 

Her  wings  to  float  off,  like  your  eiderdown, 
Over  treetop  and  hilltop  and  into  the  faraway  azure 
of  heaven  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  breezes  of  even, 
Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  stars  of  the  night, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Her  eyes  were  as  bright  as  your  very  own, 
As  soft  and  as  bright ; 
And  her  hands  were  as  white, 
As  tapering  and  white,  [height 

As  the  wings  of  the  saints  that  descend  Heaven's 

When  twilight  is  flown. 
Have  ye  envied  her  eyes'  pure  topazolite, 
And  over  their  lids  an  influence  thrown, 
That  a  new  Gemini,-  outrivalling   the    old,    in   the 
heavens  be  sown  ? 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  stars  of  the  night, 
Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 


143  LYRICS- 

Will  ye  tell  me,  O  silver-saiPd  ships, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Her  glide  was  as  graceful  as  your  very  own, 
As  she  passed  from  my  presence  to  pastures  unknown. 
Did  her  sea-shell  ears  and  her  coral  lips 
Old  ocean's  gems  so  far  eclipse 

That  he  snatched  her  hence  ? — Is  she  now  floating  on 
His  beautiful  breast  as  it  rises  and  dips  ? 
Or  have  the  mermaidens  allur'd  her  down  to  their 
submarine  crypts 

To  sit  on  a  coraline  throne  ? 
Will  ye  tell  me,  O  silver-sail' d  ships, 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 
Wilt  thou  tell  me,  O  Heaven  (God  knoweth), 

Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 

Her  soul  was  as  white  as  the  soul  of  your  own 
Saints  who  have  passed  from  the  cross  to  the  crown. 
As  a  flower  that  bloweth 
Man  cometh  and  goeth  ; 
To-day  he  is  sown,f 
To-morrow  cut  down, 
And  even  the  place  thereof  is  unknown. 
Was  she  needed  above  ?     Hath  an  angel  downflown 
To  uplift,  lest  her  foot  be  dashed  on  a  stone, 
And  bear  her  away  to  that  river  that  floweth, 

Floweth  by  God's  White  Throne — 

On  and  on — 

On  to  a  blissful  endless  end  where  no  boat  roweth — 
Wilt  thou  tell  me,  O  Heaven  (God  knoweth), 
Where  Laomi  is  gone  ? 


149 


THOU  ART  TO  ME. 

(Set  to  music  by  Signor  Aldo  Guiseppe  Randegger.) 

'THOU  art  to  me  a  light- 
But  for  thy  guiding  ray 
My  pilgrim  feet  would  stray 
Away  from  right. 

Thou  art  to  me  a  balm, 
An  incense-lamp  for  Art, 
Burning  upon  my  heart 
Steady  and  calm. 

Thou  art  to  me  a  prayer — 
A  living  orison, 
Mounting  each  day  upon 
Heaven's  unseen  stair. 

Thou  art  to  me  a  voice — 
Of  all  earth's  cadences 
Tuned  to  the  softest  keys ; 
A  poet's  choice. 

Thou  art  to  me — And  I  ? — 
Love  doth  for  love  atone. 
Ah  !  leave  me  not  alone 
In  this  cold  world  to  die. 

Be  what  thou  art  to  me — 
My  light,  my  balm,  my  voice. 
Heaven  would  not  be  my  choice 
Except  with  thee. 


150  LYRICS. 

AT  MOUNT  ENOTA'S  LAUREL' D  BASE. 
AT  Mount  Enota's  laurel'd  base, 

Where  Hiawassee's  waters  flash, 
'Twas  there  I  met  a  mountain  grace, 
Beautiful  Ida  Ash. 

As  o'er  the  rocks,  nereidianly, 

She  moved,  with  lissom  step  and  proud, 

Her  eyes  gleam'd  like  the  Gemini 
Beneath  a  shifting  summer  cloud. 

The  east-wind  left  its  mourning  cave 
To  nestle,  dove-like,  in  her  locks; 

Tamed  by  her  ttep,  each  madcap  wave 
Caress'd  the  conscious  rocks. 

The  skylarks  left  their  aery  thrones 

Amidst  the  serenading  stars, 
To  catch  her  accent's  Orphean  tones 

And  beat  its  elegiac  bars. 

"  Ah,  I  have  sigh'd  to  rest  me,''  sang 
She  from  II  Trovatore  ;  and  thro' 

A  poet's  heart  the  echo  rang, 

"Ah,  I  have  sigh'd  to  rest  me,  too" 

Sweet  Ida  Ash !  life's  hills  are  steep, 
And  Art  a  glad  toil  at  its  best ; 

Then  rest  thou  in  my  heart,  and  I 
Sweetly  in  thine  will  rest. 

Teach  me  to  sing  as  thou  dost  live, 

A  simple  life  of  love  and  duty; 
Then  I  at  least  to  Art  may  give 

One  song  of  everlasting  beauty. 


SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 


A  TEAR. 
A    CHEMIST  took  a  human  tear  and  made 

A  nice  analysis  thereof.  '  Saline, 
So  many  parts  ;  with  hydro-oxygen 
Admix' d,  so  much.     To  a  drop  of  water  add 
A  grain  of  salt — and  there  the  tear  you  had — 
Of  little  worth — in  fact,  'twas  useless,  when 
The  ocean  teem'd  therewith.     A  poet  then, 
Who  listening  stood,  and  knew  it  had  been  shed — 
This  tear — by  a  mother,  did  thus  analyze 
It  silently.     Of  joy,  so  many  parts  ; 
With  travail,  patience,  and  self-sacrifice 
Admix' d  so  much.     Take  a  heartful  of  bliss — 
Stir  in  experience — and  there  it  is. 
Its  worth?    The  fountain  whence  faith's  ocean  starts. 

PRETTY-BY-NIGHTS. 
"CVEN  as  a  child  I  had  my  favorites 

Among  the  flowers.     Most  children  have,  I  think. 
Some  take  to  buttercups  ;  to  some  the  pink 
Is  most  adorable.     My  pet  delights 
Were,  violets  first,  and  then — the  pretty-by-nights ! 
How  blissfully  at  twilight  would  I  sink 
In  the  cool  grass,  with  wimpleful,  and  link 
Chain  after  chain  of  yellows,  reds  and  whites — 

153 


154  SONNETS. 

And,  O  !  the  variegated — did  they  grow 

Once  in  the  skies  ? — I  made  so  many  guesses — 

Maybe  God  dropt  them  o'er  the  rainbow's  rim. 

All  on  a  separate  charmstring  they  must  go, 

To  ring  into  a  rainbow-crown  for  him 

Who  soon  would  meet  me  at  the  gate  with  kisses. 

A  LITTLE   BOY. 
A   LITTLE  boy  I  know,  so  bright  of  face, 

So  dimpled-sweet,  so  bubbling  o'er  with  mirth, 
He  seems  a  brooklet  gushing  from  the  earth, 
And  gurgling  softly  now  o'er  pebbly  place, 
And  bounding  now  o'er  tiny  precipice. 
Please  God,  may  he  yet  be  some  noble  firth, 
And  wash  to  shore  the  pearls  of  goodliest  worth 
That  undiscover'd  lie  at  ocean's  base — 
Some  strong  arm  of  the  sea,  where  argosies 
Of  lofty  purposes  may  safely  steer 
Their  freight  to  God's  eternal  ocean-pier. 
Bound  on,  brave  little  brook !  so  blithe,  so  merry — 
Gain  strength  for  burdens  here,,  and  beyond  the  skies 
Be  of  the  River  of  Life  a  tributary. 

A  LITTLE  MAID. 
A    LITTLE  maid  I  know,  so  dainty-fair, 

So  cunning-arch,  so  sunning  o'er  with  sweets, 
Who  when  her  ' '  Nama ' '  comes,  with  kisses  greets 
Her  on  her  hands  and  on  her  silver  hair, 
And  leads  her  laughing  to  an  easy-chair, 
Then  in  her  lap  her  fairy  form  she  seats, 
And  holds  her  close,  so  close  their  two  heart-beats 


SONNETS.  155 

Seem  doubled  one.    And  gazing  on  them  there, 
Love-lockt,  and  all  unconscious  of  my  bliss, 
Love-lockt,  love-loos 'd,  and  bartering  kiss  for  kiss, 
Youth's  gold  with  wisdom's  silver  intermixt — 
I  stand  as  one  enraptur'd  and  transfixt, 
So  part  of  very  heaven  seems  the  scene. 
If  angels  visit  earth,  'tis  here,  I  ween. 

LIFE'S  PARADOX. 
TpHEY  are  the  happiest  who  know  most  pain. 

In  even  the  saddest  life  to  every  tear 
A  thousand  smiles  are  shed.     Our  rainiest  year 
Has  more  of  sunshine  in  it  than  of  rain. 
Joy's  golden  ring  o'ermeasures  Sorrow's  train. 
Ah  !  point  me  out  that  form  which  o'er  the  bier 
Has  longest  lingered,  shaking  in  sincere 
Exuberancy  of  grief— has  oftest  lain 
Upon  a  noonday  couch  in  ecstasy 
Of  midnight  wretchedness — and  I  will  say, 
There  lies  the  heart  that  beats  the  quickest  time 
'Neath  Love's  soft  finger-touch.     Capacity 
For  suffering  is  but  that  for  joying.     They 
Who  sound  woe's  depths,  the  heights  of  rapture  climb. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN. 

I. 
QRANDMOTHER'S  garden  was  the  sweetest  spot 

Ever  I  walk'd  in  on  a  summer's  day ! 
Sweeter  than  violets,  or  new-mown  hay, 
Sweeter  than  Eden  asphodels,  I  wot. 
If  all  the  Oriental  zephyrs  brought 


156  SONNETS. 

Their  spicy  stores  from  blessed  Araby 

And  pour'd  them  at  my  feet,  I  would  turn  away 

If  from  Grandmother's  garden  I  but  caught 

One  faintest  whiff.  And  then,  that  clean  white  walk — 

Swept  every  morn,  or  e'er  she  wander' d  down  it, 

With  her  pet  flowers  to  have  a  sunrise  talk ; 

Those  blackberry-rows  and  raspberry-rows,  so  trim; 

The  sage,  coriander,  mint,  and  sweet  wild-thyme — 

Grandmother's  garden  was  a  perfect  sonnet ! 

II. 
'THE  double-quatrain  was,  eight  rows  of  corn, 

lam'd  with  reds  and  yellows,  blues  and  greens 
Of  lesser  vegetables,  by  which  means 
One  pass'd  thro'  unsprinkl'd  on  a  dewy  morn  ; 
Hollyhocks,  ruby  and  golden,  did  adorn 
The  alternate  ends  with  rhymes,  to  which  a  queen's 
Ear  might  have  paus'd  to  listen — or  a  dean's 
Fresh  from  an  Easter  choral.     Not  a  thorn 
Or  thistle  dared  discordant  foot  to  set 
Amidst  the  harmony  of  that  sextette. 
Amethyst  mad-apples,  chrysoprasus  pears, 
Emerald  asparagus,  beryl  Delawares — 
Sweet  as  the  manna  that  came  down  to  Moses — 
And  that  last  rainbow  line  of  diamond  roses ! 

III. 

QRANDMOTHER'S  bonnet  was  inviolate  white- 
White  like  her  robe,  her  hair— white  like  her  soul : 
Against  it  the  Bride  roses'  white  was  dull, 
And  the  Pearl  roses,  yellow  as  chrysolite ; 


157 


"La  France's  "  cameo,  a  peach-blow  bright ; 
The  "  Sunset's  "  amber  pink,  a  beautiful 
Deep  after-glow ;  and  when  she  stoop' d  to  cull 
A  "Jacqueminot  "  the  acme  was  reached  quite 
Of  perfect  contrast :  black  were  more  at  home 
Against  her  sorrowing  white  than  red  or  yellow. 
But,  ah  !  the  background  that  did  most  become 
Grandmother  in  her  garden,  were  the  hues 
That  fell  iridescent  from  the  "  Rainbow  "  rose — 
All  that  her  pure  brow  lack'd  was  just  that  halo. 

IV. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  garden  was  so  generous. 

Brides  got  their  bouquets  there,  and  altar-bells ; 
Sickbeds,  their  cheer  and  solace  ;  funerals, 
Their  wreaths  and  anchors.     Lovers  might  discuss 
Within  its  bowers  their  plans  felicitous, 
And  dainty  children  thro'  its  fairy  dells 
Ramble  and  pick  their  choice  of  asphodels 
And  berries.     And  with  what  magnanimous 
Right  hand  were  heap'd  its  baskets  for  the  poor, 
The  left  hand  all-unknowing ;   with  what  grace 
It  kept  supplied  the  sacred  fireside  vase, 
Each  morning  with  fresh  frankincense  and  myrrh ; 
And  with  what  golden  pride  and  purple  state 
It  crown' d  the  honor' d  guest  within  the  gate  ! 


158  SONNETS. 

LEIGH   HUNT,  MY  BIRD. 

I. 
T  CALL  my  bird  Leigh  Hunt,  because  he  sings 

So  cheerfully  in  prison.     It  is  meet 
That  Poesy,  to  bear  out  the  conceit, 
Give  him  a  garden  ;  so  I  stick  green  things 
About  him  boweringly.     See  how  he  swings 
On  yonder  mimic  bush,  his  pink-ribb'd  feet 
Quivering  beneath  him  with  sensation  sweet 
Of  new-found  freedom,  and  his  dainty  wings 
(Lo,  how  he  spreads  them  fan-like  in  the  sun !) 
Seem  like  a  patch  of  silken  moonlight  spun. 
Leigh  Hunt,  my  Bird !  look  not  beyond  the  stars, 
And  pine  to  skim  with  larks  the  aerial  blue. 
Leigh  Hunt,  the  Poet,  made  his  prison-bars 
A  Paradise :  and  so  will  I  make  yours  for  you. 

II. 
T  EIGH  HUNT,  my  Bird,  he  hath  a  sunny  soul, 

And  prone,  I  think,  by  nature,  to  content. 
What  tho'  the  Destinies  have  cruelly  pent 
Him  thus  within  a  little  gilded  hole  ? — 
Shall  he  for  this  espouse  his  tongue  to  dole, 
And  all  his  melody  in  wails  be  spent  ? 
Yet  sometimes  I  misdoubt  this  glad  ostent 
His  heart  is  breaking,  and  mine  own  is  full 
With  fellow-feeling ;   sometimes  he  grows  sad 
And  hangs  his  head,  and  when  I  say,  "Sing  sweet ! ' 
Draws  only  from  his  breast  a  low  "tu-weet" 
Leigh  Hunt,  my  Bird !    Leigh  Hunt,  the  Poet,  had 
His  love  in  prison  with  him.     That  is  why 
He  never  lonesome  grew,  as  you  and  I. 


SONNETS.  159 

MY  SHAKESPEARE. 
MY  Shakespeare.     Golden  privilege,  thus  to  thy 

Death-daring  name  the  symbol  to  prefix 
Of  my  possessing.     Doth  the  coupling  vex, 
Seeming  irreverent,  thy  memory? 
Nay,  thou  art  mine.  When  God  the  world  had  brought 
Thro'  her  sixth  labor,  perfect  in  all  parts, 
He  sent  thee  down — celestial  after-thought — 
To  gather  up  and  save  His  children's  hearts. 
And  thou  didst  pick  them  up  and  'twixt  the  pages 
Of  an  immortal  tome  as  relics  press, 
Where  they  will  linger  thro'  the  unnumber'd  ages, 
To  draw  man's  laughter,  wonder,  and  distress. 
And,  great  Heart-Gatherer !  so  sublime  thine  art 
Thou  reach 'd'st  out  o'er  the  years  and  caught' st  my 
heart. 

WORDSWORTH. 

A   SIMPLE  man ;  who  lov'd  life's  quiet  ways, 

Who  found  a  friend  in  every  flower  and  bird, 
And  in  each  passing  breeze  a  music  heard, 
To  weave  in  song-chains  for  his  linked  days. 
A  sensuous  man  ;  whom  every  varying  phase 
Of  nature  with  a  sacred  import  stirr'd; 
Yet  nothing  pantheistic  in  his  word — 
To  one  revealed  God  is  all  the  praise. 
A  passionate  man ;  who  yet  in  calm  control 
Held  every  deep  emotion  of  the  soul : 
His  tears  his  wisdom  never  overran — 
We  feel,  not  see,  the  emotion  running  thro'  it. 
Wordsworth — a  simple,  sensuous,  passionate  man — 
An  ideal  type— a  very  Milton's  poet. 


160 


MRS.  BROWNING. 
pIRST  woman  singer.     Strongest  of  the  weak, 

Weakest  in  body  of  the  strong  in  soul  ; 
Whose  genius,  flashing  'thwart,  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  firmament  of  poesy,  left  a  streak 
Of  light  will  shed  its  influence  whilst  we  speak 
' '  The  tongue  which  Shakespeare  spake. "    If  o'  er  the 
Where  geniuses  their  honor' d  names  enroll,      [scroll 
When  they  have  climb' d  fame's  utmost  mountain-peak, 
I  were  permit  to  pass  mine  eye  and  choose 
A  name  to  leave  behind  me  when  I  die, 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  would  it  be — 
For  aye  God-dedicated  to  the  Muse. 
But  if  her  spotless  path  my  feet  might  lead, 
I'd  ask  of  Fame  no  crowning  laurel  meed. 

BROWNING. 
T  MUST  confess  a  preference  for  her. 

The  purest  sparks  he  left  us,  to  my  thought, 
Are  those  fine  dartling  reds  and  blues  he  caught 
From  her  who  was  professedly  bis  star. 
Howbeit,  so  esteeming,  I  would  not  debar 
His  lofty  memory  of  one  tiniest  jot 
Of  deep-earn' d  homage.     If  his  muse  had  wrought 
No  other  miracle  than  the  rhythmic  snare 
Wherein  was  meshed  that  woman's  vestal  heart, 
She  would  have  mark'd  herself  a  master  muse. 
But  should  the  poet  play  logician's  part 
And  poet's  too  ?    I  can  but  wish,  sometimes, 
He  had  winnow' d  out  the  logic  from  his  rhymes — 
Or  the  rhymes  from  his  logic,  as  you  choose. 


SONNETS.  161 

TENNYSON  AND  LONGFELLOW. 
TF  poets,  like  disciples,  go  in  pairs, 

Then  is  my  pair  well-sorted — Tennyson 
And  Longfellow.     In  what  sweet  unison 
Their  spirits  soared  ! — what  mutual  smiles  and  tears 
They  shed,  thro'  all  those  serenading  years 
The  Atlantic  roll'd  between  them.    When  the  crown 
Of  England  paus'd  to  lay  on  brow  of  one 
The  wreath  of  peerage,  she,  not  unawares, 
Did  honor  to  that  ever-during  name, 
Victoria.     It  were  Columbia's  shame 
Had  she,  being  like  invested,  left  unlaid 
Like  wreath  on  the  other's  brow.     Peer  him  she  did — 
With  love.     To-day  beneath  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
The  Psalm  of  Life  sounds  on  a  million  lips. 

GRAY. 
'PHEY  came  across  a  faded  manuscript 

Of  Gray's — time-yellow' d,  crumpled,  mildewpied — 
Husk  that  the  Elegy  had  cast  aside 
When  forth  it  fruited  perfect.     Here  was  dipt 
The  fungus  sentiment,  and  there  outslipt 
The  phrase  ambiguous  ;  here  fortified 
The  tottering  idea,  and  there  applied 
Art's  emery  till  Promethean  lustre  leapt 
From  hackney 'd  gem  of  thought :  so  interlined, 
So  marginalia-strewn,  'twere  hard  to  find 
Where  lapsed  the  lucid  theme.    Less  priz'd  therefore  ? 
Nay,  rather  priz'd  an  hundredfold  the  more. 
Ne'er  yet  Pierian  font  gusht  crystal  forth 
That  had  not  toil'd  thro'  rock-beds  under  earth. 
ii 


162  SONNETS. 

LANIER. 
JVTUSIC  and  Poesy,  by  some  sweet  chance, 

Met  in  the  Valley  of  Humiliation. 
Folded  their  wings  were  ;  in  deep  meditation 
Each  hung  a  head,  and  made  slow  advance. 
Never  a  motion  made  they  for  a  dance — 
Never  a  hint  to  enter  conversation  ; 
Only  alow,  scarce-utter' d  lamentation, 
Each  gazing  sad  in  other's  countenance. 
Music  was  searching  for  a  word — alas, 
So  long  had  been  the  quest ;  and  Poesy 
Was  searching  for  a  sound.     A  tear — 
A  mutual  tear — upon  the  fragrant  grass 
They  dropt,  and  kist,  and  parted.     Presently 
Upsprung  a  pure- white  asphodel— Lanier. 

"AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT." 
MOT  many  birds  have  made  homes  in  the  trees 

That  border  my  song-garden.     Many  light, 
And  flute  a  fancy,  or  a  berry  bite, 
Then  wing  them  otherwhere  on  .some  soft  breeze 
That  beckons.     Haply  'tis  the  cypresses 
Whose  gloom  lets  in  too  scantily  heaven's  bright, 
Or  else  the  weeping  willows,  that  invite 
Not  serenaders — or  the  draperies 
Of  moss  that  veil  my  roses  from  the  blight 
Of  southern  sun.     Ah,  but  nathless  there  are 
Some  rare  sweet  song-birds  here, — some  from  afar, 
Over  the  centuries  and  the  seas,  have  flown  ; 
Others  from  climes  Columbian — of  these,  one — 
Gilder — most  soothes  me  after  Sorrow's  night. 


163 


COWPER'S  MARY. 

T  THOUGHT  once  of  the  women  who  had  been 
The  beacon-lights  of  bards — whose  influent  ray 
For  years  had  guided  them,  by  night  and  day, 
Safe  'round  the  glittering  vortices  of  sin, 
And  thro'  the  eclipses  of  bereavement,  when 
The  spirit  travaileth  :  in  whose  constancy 
Their  souls,  being  pois'd,  had  mounted  patiently 
And  surely  upward  into  heaven's  serene. 
So  retrospecting,  rose  the  visions  fair 
Of  that  immortal  lady  Florentine — 
Of  Dante's  Beatrice  Portinari, 
Who  enter 'd  him  into  the  life  divine  ; 
And  Petrarch's  Laura,  with  her  eyes  of  prayer  ; 
And — gentlest,  tenderest,  truest  -  Cowper's  Mary. 

MILTON'S  DAUGHTERS. 
TF  ours  such  bliss  is  at  this  distance  wide 

Communing  with  thee,  Milton,  how  tenfold 
The  joy  of  those  two  who  did  sit  and  hold 
Thy  blind  hands  pulsing  ;  or  did  eager  guide 
Them  to  thy  sacred  harp,  not  unallied 
To  harps  angelic,  when  with  visions  bold 
Thy  spirit  burst  its  earth-bands,  and  out-roll'd 
In  golden  fullness  floodtide  on  floodtide 
Of  melody  majestic  ;  or  did  dive 
With  thee  antiquity's  dim  ocean-caves 
For  sacred  pearls,  or  mythologic  coral ; 
Or  did,  with  womanly  and  sensitive 
Fingers,  enwreathe  thy  tresses'  silvery  waves, 
Over  thy  sightless  brows,  with  redolent  laurel. 


164  SONNETS. 

EMMA  HAHR. 
A  MIRACLE.     A  veiled  rhapsody. 

What  angel  left  the  gates  of  Heaven  ajar 
That  thro'  the  portal  there  should  waft  a  bar 
Of  the  great  Symphony  of  the  To-Be  ? 
A  winged  measure  of  divinity — 
Fallen  in  our  midst  in  veil  of  Emma  Hahr. 
Earth  leaps  towards  Heaven,  her  elements  at  war : 
See  horrid  Clamor  skulk — Discordancy 
Creep  to  his  lair — Mirth  swoon  into  her  grave — 
All  nature  throbs — the  sweet -voiced  birds  are  shy — 
The  shell  withholds  its  message  from  the  wave — 
The  winds  go  whispering,  "  A  mystery  !  " — 
Whilst  old  Pythagoras  from  his  distant  sphere 
Leans  worldward  with  his  star-attuned  ear. 

WASHINGTON. 
MOT  to  our  Country's  father,  deep  rever'd, 

Nor  to  her  Capital  of  wide  renown, 
But  to  a  modest  little  Georgia  town, 
My  monumental  sonnet  is  now  Feared. 
An  Eden  :  here  the  most  fastidious  bird 
Of  Paradise  might  find  a  nest  of  down. 
An  Arcadie :  here  Hesper  might  have  sown 
The  Garden  of  Hesperides,  where  star'd 
The  apples  of  pure  gold  upon  the  trees  ; 
But  here  need  not  have  labored  Hercules 
To  slay  the  guarding  dragon.     Air  so  pure 
No  fiend  could  breathe  an  hour,  and  endure  ; 
Nor  Greed's  own  self  could  cast  a  covetous  eye 
On  this  fair  bower  of  Generosity. 


SONNETS.  165 

A  GEORGIA  GLOAMING. 
A  UTUMN.   That  hour  of  grace  when  moon  and  sun 

Each  full  in  other's  face  serenely  gaze 
Across  a  charmed  world.     '  Twere  vain  to  trace 
The  lines  where  sunlights  into  moonlights  run, 
So  subtle  is  the  interfusion 
Of  gold  and  silver,  gentle  greens  and  grays, 
And  dying  rose.     A  silken  filmy  lace 
Of  white  diaphanous  cloud,  Arachne-spun, 
Is  portier'd  o'er  th'  horizon's  western  gate: 
One  white-torch' d  vestal  enters  ;  others  wait, 
Timid,  till  Dian  sweep  the  curtains  wide, 
Upon  a  variegated  hillock-side. 
Under  the  serenading  pines,  I  roam, 
And  in  this  pilgrim  world  feel  strangely  at  home. 

A  FLORIDA  AFTERGLOW. 
QVER  against  a  gloom  of  cypresses, 

A  long  cold  stratum  of  pale  saffron  sheen  ; 
O'er  this,  thin  layers  of  sapphire  and  aquamarine — 
Now  melting  to  a  tender  opal  haze — 
Now  dulling  to  a  morbid  chrysoprase — 
Now  bright' ning  to  a  sanguine  emerald  green — 
Now  soft' ning  to  an  amethyst  serene — 
Now  deepening  to  an  ominous  topaz — 
Now  firing  to  a  passionate  ruby  red, 
Which  o'er  the  heav'ns  doth  instantly  outspread, 
As  naval  battle-blood  spilt  on  the  seas 
Incarnadines  the  ambient  waves.     Now  white 
Hesper  advanceth,  with  th'  Hesperides, 
And,  without  twilight  courtesy,  'tis  night. 
Lake  Minnehaha. 


166  SONNETS. 

CHRISTMAS  AT  LOCH  KATRINE. 
"VTOT  Scottish  Loch  Katrine,  but  Loch  Katrine 

In  Flora-land.     A  thousand  Christmas  trees, 
Swing  golden  bounty  to  the  bounding  breeze, 
Till  the  white  sand  is  dotted  with  the  green 
And  red  and  yellow  of  lime,  tangerine, 
And  orange.     (With  their  hoarded  treasuries, 
Grape-fruit  and  shaddock  groan  :    One  sometimes 

sees 

The  groaning  rich  so  hoard  their  wealth,  which,  when 
Thieves  break  thro'  and  steal  it,  proves  a  bitter- 
sweet.) 

With  all  this  generous  outlay  at  my  feet ; 
With  all  that  gives  the  senses  pleasant  taste, 
And  feeds  the  heart — friends,  books,  birds,  flowers 

galore, — 

The  thought  conies  o'er  me  of  the  northern  poor, 
To  whom  what  God-send  were  this  lavish  waste  ! 

YALAHA-ON-ASXATULA. 

VALAHA-ON-ASTATULA— interpreted, 

"Sweet  Orange  on  the  Lake  of  Sunbeams." 

How 

Those  Indian  names  out-music  ours !  I  trow 
Some  ichor  mingles  with  the  warlike  red 
In  their  barbarian  veins.     Pan  might  have  led 
His  shepherds  forth  to  such  a  spot.     And  O  ! 
What  choice  of  reeds  he  had  found  here  to  blow  ; 
And  how  his  bees  had  suck'd  yon  lotus-bed, 
And  in  these  wild  magnolias  held  grand  court, 


SONNETS.  167 

Or,  cloyed  with  revelry,  had  restful  swung 
On  yonder  flaming  vine  of  Devil's  Tongue, 
Or  drows'd  on  Spanish  Bayonet's  bright  edge  ; 
And  just  beyond  that  marge  of  lush  green  sedge, 
His  fishermen  had  found  what  royal  sport ! 

"  ONCE  IN  MIDWINTER  WOODS  IN  FLORA- 
LAND." 

QNCE  in  midwinter  woods  in  Flora-land 
I  found  a  violet  hiding  'neath  a  heart. 
Dear  modest  thing !     I  said,  how  like  thou  art 
To  one  I  know,  and  hold  in  reverend 
Affection — one  who  her  sweet  life  doth  spend 
In  calm  retiracy — doth  dwell  apart, 
Like  Wordsworth's  Lucy.     Yet — as  thee — the  alert 
Poet  is  quick  to  espy  her  and  to  band 
The  globe  with  her  encomiums — aye  !  since 
The  modest  wield  the  largest  influence. 
If  every  pillow  that  upholds  my  faith 
Were  swept  to  earth  in  one  wild  tide  of  doubt, 
Still  would  the  fragrance  of  her  life  creep  out 
Amidst  the  ruins  and  rescue  me  from  death. 

"AS  DAY  BY  DAY  I  SEEK  SOME  SYLVAN 

ISLE." 
AS  day  by  day  I  seek  some  sylvan  isle, 

More  solitary  than  the  one  before, 
To  sonnet  my  Beloved,  angels  oar 
My  shallop  for  me,  and  I  seem  the  while 
To  be  alone  in  heaven,  with  heaven's  smile 


168  SONNETS. 

Beaming  soft  sanction  down,  what  time  I  pour 
My  heart  out  at  the  feet  of  one  I  adore 
With  tender  reverence.     Rhyming  so,  I  toil 
Not,  for  the  vesper  zephyrs  plash  serene 
Amongst  the  water-lilies  and  the  sedge 
Lilteth  a  measure  for  my  thoughts,  that  pledge, 
And  swing,  and  tilt,  and  nothing  hindereth, 
Like  golden  goblets  on  the  jasmine-vine — 
Just  pouring  out  the  bliss  God  filPd  them  with. 

GRACE. 

HTHAT  influent  subtlety,  intangible, 

Which  charms,  we  know  not  why,  we  care  not 

how. 

Saints  condescend  before  it,  monarchs  bow, 
And  poets  (Heaven  help  us)  prostrate  fall, 
O'ercome  at  unawares — aye,  give  up  all 
Besides  for  it,  and  count  loss  gain,  if  so 
We  may  but  blissful  hover  to  and  fro 
About  it,  and  may  feel  the  rhythmical 
Wave  of  its  breath,  or  touch  the  fragrant  hem 
Of  its  white  garment :  even  on  the  ground 
Whence  it  hath  vanish' d  will  we  sit  and  twine 
Sad  garlands,  rather  than  with  diadem 
Of  glittering  gold  and  diamonds  be  crown' d, 
Or  bend  the  knee  at  any  other  shrine. 


SONNETS.  169 

HER  EYES. 
A  DOWN  into  the  depths  of  thy  true  eyes 

One  only  needs  to  look  to  trust  in  thee, 
For  there  dwell  sadness  and  sincerity, 
Just  as  they  followed  Eve  from  Paradise. 
If  e'er  and  anon  upon  their  surface  lies 
Mirth,  in  a  semblance-garb  of  sovereignty, 
She  glisters  there  a  moment  bubblingly, 
Then  glints  away  in  laughterful  surprise, 
Seeing  she  did  mistake  her  proper  sphere. 
And  so  with  Coquetry  and  Pride  and  Scorn — 
They  can  but  scintillate  with  transient  flashes 
From  'neath  those  lids — Ah  !  nothing  as  a  tear 
(Albeit  thy  life  hath  not  yet  spent  its  morn) 
.  Is  so  becoming  to  those  drooping  lashes. 

HER  HAND. 
A  SONNET  to  her  hand.     My  harpsichord, 

Had  I  but  such  an  one  to  sweep  thy  keys, 
Then  might  I  set  about,  less  ill  at  ease, 
A  task  which,  to  my  fingers,  seems  absurd 
As  painting  Shakespeare's  lily.     Harp  ne'er  stirr'd 
To  such  a  hopeless  cadence.     Bossy  frieze 
Beneath  the  chisel  of  Praxiteles 
Show'd  not  such  cunning  curves.    There  is  no  word 
Save  snow  to  call  its  whiteness  by — and  snow 
Forsooth,  is  pulseless,  cold.     Till  thou,  like  me, 
Had'st  felt  its  palpitant  warmth,  thou  would'st  not 
How  poor  this  best  comparison  would  be.        [know 
Her  hand — too  white  and  tender  to  emboss, 
But  not  too  tender-white  to  bear  a  cross. 


170  SONNETS. 

"SINCE  OUR  SOULS  CROSSED." 
OINCE  our  souls  crossed,  sweet  soul,  my  soul  hath 
In  the  Eternal  Now, — no  might  have  been,  [dwelt 
No  was,  no  will  be,  but  the  great  serene 
//  is — Light  is,  Life  is,  Love  is :  I  felt 
It  at  the  moment  at  thy  side  I  knelt, 
And  when  I  awak'd  and  gaz'd  around,  'twas  seen — 
God's  kingdom  in  this  beauteous  land  terrene, — 
Not  in  one  chosen  spot,  one  narrow  belt, 
But  outstretch' d  o'er  the  world — which  is  not  sad, 
Which  is  not  hopeless,  is  not  woe-predoom'd, 
But  by  the  fire  of  faith  updrawn,  consumed 
Into  Truth's  sun,  upleapeth  and  is  glad. 
It  is — Light  is,  Life  is,  Love  is — and  even 
Now  dwell  we  in  the  kingdom  of  His  Heaven. 

A  SONG  TO  COOL  MY  LADY. 
A   SONG  to  cool  my  lady.     Let  it  be 

All  made  of  breezes,  shades,  and  fountain  spray — 
A  flower  or  two — white  flowers — roses,  say — 
Pale  climbing  roses,  of  faint  fragancy 
And  broad  green  leaves  ;  a  gentle  melody — 
Barili's  Cradle  Song,  or  two  or  three 
Measures  from  Schubert's  Serenade  in  E  ; 
A  passage  from  Longfellow's  Rainy  Day ; 
Sidney  Lanier's  Last  Sigh  ;  a  revery 
Of  sails  upon  the  soul's  Vesuvius  Bay  ; 
A  night-wind  rustling  thro'  a  myrtle  tree  ; 
A  silver  glimpse  into  futurity ; 
A  veil  of  cameo  o'er  an  emerald  sea  ; 
Shadows  of  snow-clouds  on  a  moonlit  lea. 


SONNETS.  171 

SLEEP.     I. 
AT  midnight  Sleep,  the  mocker,  came  to  me — 

My  best  friend  turn'd  to  foe  ! — and  o'er  my  bed 
Dallied  his  poppied  wand,  but  took  a  heed 
Lest  it  should  touch  mine  eyelids — I  could  see 
It  hovering  there  like  the  apple  on  the  tree         [said, 
When  Tantalus  reach'd  in  vain.     "  Sweet  friend,"  I 
"Draw  nearer — touch  me  with  thy  charmed  reed — 
Sprinkle  mine  eyes  with  lotus  pot-pourri — 
Mine  aching  temples  cool  with  Lethe-spray — 
Let  but  thy  soporific  finger-tips 
O'er  pass  my  brow — or  thy  mesmeric  lips 
Breathe  on  my  pillow." — "Nay!  my  sweet  one,  nay  !" 
(As  out  into  the  shimmering  night  he  flies) 
"  Bid  Poesy  kiss  to  thy  wakeful  eyes." 

SLEEP.     II. 
AT  daydawn  Sleep,  relenting,  came  to  me — 

My  old,  old  comrade  Sleep,  came  as  of  old — 
Came  gliding  swiftly  o'er  my  glad  threshold, 
Whose  door  had  known  his  tread  and  turn'd  the  key 
Of  welcome — came,  and  O,  so  tenderly 
Did  kiss  mine  eyelids  down,  and  warm  my  cold 
Hands  'twixt  his  pulsing  own,  and  close  enfold 
Me  in  his  downy  arms.     O  Araby 
The  Blest !  thou  hast  no  balm  like  this  ! 
No  sails  like  this  down  the  Vesuvius  Bay ! 
No  bed  of  autumn  leaves  so  soft,  I  wis, 
In  Valanibrosian  vales — as  when  sweet  sleep 
In  golden  odors  did  my  senses  steep 
And  bring  me  rest  that  morn — and  dreams  of  thee  ! 


172  SONNETS. 

"IN  EVERY  HEART  SOME  NOBLE  NERVES 

THERE  ARE." 
TN  every  heart  some  noble  nerves  there  are, 

Which  touch'd  upon  by  jest  recoil  with  shock. 
'Twixt  ridicule,  that  only  lives  to  mock, 
And  that  pure  laugh  that  cheers — what  gulf  is  there  ! 
If  from  my  soul  arises  one  deep  prayer 
Unceasingly,  it  is  that  God  may  lock 
The  gate-ways  of  mine  ears  to  all  who  knock 
There  with  unbrotherly  messages,  and  bar 
The  portal  of  my  lips  from  letting  out 
Those  imps  of  ridicule  and  ghouls  of  doubt 
That  will  at  times  in  every  breast  arise. 
God-fus'd  in  us,  as  colors  in  the  flowers, 
Our  feelings  are  our  own — all  that  are  ours — 
Which  only  God,  and  time,  can  alchemize. 

TO  SONNET-BUILDERS :  A  MESSAGE. 
T  OWE  you  apology  for  thus  venturing. 

Allegiance  drives  me  to  it,  and  pure  love 
Of  Art,  my  queen.     Certes  it  doth  "behoove 
Me,  her  most  loyal  handmaiden,  to  bring 
A  message  to  her  subjects.     Murmuring 
Is  not  my  gift :  if  I  malfeasance  prove, 
'Tis  only  at  the  instigation  of 
Her  whom  I  serve.     It  is  a  simple  thing, 
This  message  I  now  read,  by  her  command, 
To  sonnet-builders  -.—Start  not  in  the  skies 
To  build  your  stately  mansions,  Chinese-wise, 
Down-rushing'  headlong  to  a  bed  of  sand ; 
But  lay  you  first  a  wise  foundation  down, 
Then  lift  your  polish1  d  columns  one  by  one. 


173 


THE   PIERIDES. 


CLIO,  MELPONENE  AND  CALLIOPE. 

fN  dreams  thro*  Tempers  vale  I  took  my  stroll, 

And  met  the  Pierides — in  groups  of  three 
And  two.    First  Clio,  muse  of  History, 
Holding  her  cithara  and  half -opened  scroll : 
Close  at  her  right,  with  mask,  and  parchment  roll, 
And  club  of  Hercules,  was  Melpomene, 
Vine-wreath 'd  and  buskin- shod  for  tragedy  ; 
Whiles  on  her  left  arm  leaned  the  beautiful 
Mother  of  Orpheus,  Calliope  —queen 
Of  Homer's  soul — with  epic  pen, 
And  close-roll'1  d  tablet.     Charmed-wise, 
I  gaz'd  on  this  great  classic  trinity. 
But  when  each  held  a  goddess  hand  to  me 
For  tribute — wavering,  I  let  fall  mine  eyes. 

QUEEN  SOUTH. 

TT17HEN  our  fair  South  was  young  and  olden-new, 

Her  sunny  curls  by  passion  yet  unshorn, 
To  her  red  lips  she  laid  the  sounding  horn, 
And  to  her  banquets  all  the  nations  flew, 
And  all  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens  blew 
Praise  of  her  purple  bounty.     Alas,  one  morn 


174  SONNETS. 

She  fell,  our  queen.     A  brother  king,  twin-born, 
Question 'd  her  right-of-way,  challeng'd  her,  drew 
From  her  unyielding  waist  the  key  of  keys 
Wherewith  she  unlock' d  her  treasure.     There  were 

left 

Others  upon  her  girdle,  and  with  these, 
Fitting  them  here  and  there,  with  fingers  deft, 
Tho'  bleeding  still,  she  pass'd  from  door  to  door, 
And  oped  new  vaults  of  wealth  undream' d  before. 

ATLANTA. 
pIRST  Lady  of  the  South  !    Thy  diamond  eyes 

Full  many  a  suitor  lure,  as  did  of  old 
Fair  Atalanta's — but,  as  hers,  still  hold 
Them  at  proud  distance,  till  one  win  the  prize 
In  conquering  foot-race.     Prithee  now,  be  wise — 
Be  circumspect,  sweet  maiden  !  lest  some  bold 
Foreign  Hippomenes,  with  apple  of  gold 
Roll'd  off  the  track,  thy  charmed  eye  entice, 
And  so  win  first  the  goal,  and  claim  thy  lips — 
Rightfully  ours,  who  hew'd  thy  woods  primeval, 
Thy  virgin  valleys  fill'd,  and  hills  made  level — 
And  now  thine  international  gates  unlock. 
Give  royal  entrance  unto  all  who  knock — 
But  save  thy  kisses  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

EDISON. 
J^ATE,  led  by  Edison,  I  stood  upon 

The  Mount  of  Progress— in  its  western  wing — 
And  there  did  hap  so  passing  strange  a  thing 
As  doth,  meseems,  deserve  the  setting  down. 


SONNETS.  175 

Before  me  pass'd  three  figures,  one  by  one. 

First,  a  boy  cherub,  who  did  dance  and  sing, 

Disporting  in  a  wise  so  rollicking, 

"  Certes,"  cried  I,  "  that's  Cupid  !  "     Edison 

Said,  "Nay,  that's  Time.'1'1     Next,  hobbling,  came 

A  dwarf,  so  shrunk  of  form,  so  pinch'd  of  face. 

"That's   Death!"!  shudder'd.     "Nay,"   said  he, 

"  that's  Space." 

An  angel,  last,  with  robes  so  dazzling-white, 
"Ah  !  "  burst  I  forth,  "no  need  that  vision  name — 
That's   Life."      "Nay,"   answer'd  Edison,    "that's 
Night." 

A  STORM. 

MID-SEA.     A  million  stars.     The  vessel's  name 

Is  Harmony ;  the  Captain,  Equipoise  ; 
The  crew,  Endurance,  Silence,  Faith,  and  Joy's 
Twin  daughters,   Peace  and  Laughter.     Thro'    the 

gleam 

Of  Milky  Way  downdarts  a  blue-edged  flame 
Of  forked  fury,  follow' d  by  a  noise 
Of  thunder-wheels.     Old  Ocean  in  a  trice 
Accepts  the  challenge,  and  upspouts  a  stream 
That  outs  the  stars.     Now  horrid  war  prevails, 
And  Chaos  revels.     Equipoise  o'erboard, 
Tottering,  falls ;  Peace  brandishes  a  sword  ; 
Endurance  swoons  away ;  and  Laughter  wails  ; 
While  Faith,  blaspheming,  turns  to  Infidel, 
And  Silence  lifts  a  shriek  that  startles  hell. 


176  SONNETS. 

A  CALM. 

FJAWN.     Not  a  star.     The  birds  still  think  it  night 

The  insects,  subtler,  feeling  day's  approach, 
Have  still'd  their  tiny  harps.     I  feel  the  touch 
Of  something  on  my  cheek :  it  is  the  white 
Lake-mist  arising,  like  an  acolyte 
For  matin  mass,  or  ere  the  world  encroach 
On  holy  hour.     Now  from  her  silver  coach, 
Drawn  by  grey  steeds  in  sober  livery  dight, 
Sad-eyed  Aurora  peers,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  reins  fall'n  from  her  hands.     In  this  pale  beam, 
I  see  a  mesh  of  thistledown  at  poise 
In  mid-air,  motionless.     I  hear  a  noise. 
I  turn  :  a  dewdrop  from  the  o'erhanging  brake 
Hath  plasht  upon  the  surface  of  the  lake. 

COMPOSURE. 
A  LURID  battle-plain -the  crucial  pitch 

Of  arms  betwixt  two  nations  match'd  to  a  man. 
A  circling  cloud,  brewing  a  hurricane, 
With  mutterings  weird  as  those  of  Macbeth's  witch — 
Now  with  Cyclopian  oaths  and  shrieks  eldritch 
Its  seething  pot  upsetting  on  the  plain, 
That  liquid  choler  flows  thro'  rear  and  van 
And  o'er  the  slaughter 'd  loved  ones  in  the  ditch. 
Behold,  whiles  earth  and  skies  are  warring  thus, 
Like  feudal  ranks  of  the  Satanic  band, 
Within  the  crater  of  Vesuvius, 
Her  first-born  clinging  to  her  milkless  breast, 
A  mother  refugee  lies  down  to  rest, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  the  Almighty  hand. 


177 


POL  YHYMNIA  AND  URANIA, 
twain  that  greeted  now  my  lifted  eyes 
Were  Polyhymnia  and  Urania.     Fair 
Indeed  they  were :  one  held  a  lyre  of  rare 
Exquisite  workmanship— the  pure  device 
Of  her  own  genius — which  in  pensive  wise 
She  brush 'd,  and  raised  her  azure  eyes  in  prayer 
First  of  all  mundane  goddesses  to  dare 
Approach  the  most  high  gods  with  melodies  ; 
The  other  in  her  right  hand  held  a  sphere 
Celestial,  pointing  to  it  with  her  left, 
As  if  to  indicate  the  god  to  whom 
Her  sister  paid  her  adoration.     There 
I  paused  enraptured,  and  my  hand  was  swift 
To  lay  at  feet  of  each  a  laurel  bloom. 

HESPER. 

A  MBITIOUS  orb  !  thou  usherest  in  the  night 
E'en  ere  the  golden  dust  by  Phoebus'  train 
Rais'd  in  the  west  hath  settled  in  the  main  ; 
E'en  ere  Diana's  self  dare  claim  her  right 
Of  way  into  her  special  realm,  thy  white 
Incense-breathing  lantern  thou  art  fain 
To  swing  out  in  the  heavens.     Charles'  Wain 
Is  not  so  aspiring  ;  nor  the  diamond-bright 
Orion  ;  nor  Aldebaran,  flaming  eye 
Of  Taurus ;  nor  the  yoked  Gemini ; 
Nor  Cassiopeia's  Chair  illuminous  ; 
Nor  Sickle's  glittering  curve ;  nor  Sirius, 
With  his  swift-scorching  scintillations ; 
Nor  Milky  Way,  with  its  quintillion  suns. 

12 


178  SONNETS. 

THE  OPAL. 
f\N  wings  of  special  lightning  Jove  has  sent 

Iris  to  Tempe's  vale,  where  stroll  the  Nine. 
News  is  arriving  at  the  Delphian  shrine, 
Upon  the  posting  east,  of  deep  moment 
And  dreaded  sequence.     In  the  Orient 
A  bright  star  would  arise,  that  self-same  e'en, 
Of  such  transcendent  lustre  as  to  outshine 
The  Olympian  volts  combin'd ;  by  whose  portent 
He  might  be  warn'd,  an  angel's  song  would  rise 
Of  such  glad  tidings  the  Pierides  [wonder 

Would  thenceforth  lack  a  theme.     Which  when  in 
The  weeping  Sisters  hear,  with  ne'er  a  scruple 
They  hang  their  sorrowing  harps  on  the  oleander, 
While  Iris  drops  a  tear  that  turns  to  an  opal. 

ERATO  AND  EUTERPE. 
J/ffHILES  yet  I  stood,  with  head  bow'd  reverently, 

A  sound  so  dulcet-pure  crept  on  mine  eary 
So  enticing -soft,  so  paradisian-rare, 
So  insinuating-sweet,  I  turned— tv  see 

Those  fair  twin  daughters  of  Mnemosyne 
And  Zeus— for  such  in  sooth  I  knew  they  were — 
Euterpe  and  Erato,  tender  pair  ! 
Methought  of  Horace  and  his  Lalage — 
And  all  true  poets  and  true  lovers  since, 

Who  have  paid  homage  to  their  innocence 
And  grace,  both  in  and  out  of  books. 
I  tarried  not  to  do  mine  humble  part — 

Which  was  to  shower  their  hyacinthine  locks 

With  handfuls  of  rose-petals  from  my  heart. 


SONNETS.  179 

LOVE. 
COME  heart-flowers,  like  some  earthly  blossoms,  are 

Too  chaste  for  human  touch  to  dwell  upon — 
Too  modest  to  unfold  beneath  the  sun ; 
As  the  night-blooming  Cereus  from  the  glare 
Of  bold-eyed  day  conceals  its  charms  with  care — 
Close-hooded,  like  the  consecrated  nun — 
But  bares  them  to  the  adoration 
Of  some  fine  distant  deferential  star — 
Aye,  freely  unfolds  its  heart,  in  one  full  hour 
Of  lavish  grace,  of  golden  confidence — 
Under  the  delicate  heavenly  influence — 
E'en  tho'  death  be  the  cost,  such  trust  to  prove — 
Or  separation,  sadder  :  such  an  heart-flower, 
So  lavish,  yet  so  modest-chaste  is  love. 

ROSETIME  IN  WASHINGTON.     (AN  IDYL.) 
D  OSETIME  in  Washington.     An  eastern  sweep 

Of  cool  verandah,  vined  with  Mareschal  Niels 
And  trailing  Brides,  whereover  trickling  steals 
The  sweet  south,  violet-laden.     Thro'  the  deep 
Green  gloom  of  the  magnolia  branches,  seep 
The  nectar 'd  moondrops  down,  and  flow  in  rills 
Of  liquid  gold  around  the  lily-hills 
And  down  the  violet-borders.     In  their  sleep, 
Like  slumbering  babes,  the  breeze-rockt  lilies  smile, 
And  dream  Aurora  kisses  them  ;  what  while 
The  wide-eyed  jasmine-starlings  glint  and  dance, 
And  dart  their  Cupid-arrows  thither  and  yon, 
And,  percht  on  blushing  bough  of  sweet  La  France, 
The  mocking-bird  makes  love  to  Lady  Moon. 


180  SONNETS. 

ANTICIPATION. 
A  STARLIT  lawn,  with  hints  of  soft  florescence. 

Alone  she  listeth  at  the  lattice-height. 
Of  perfect  days  to  be  and  full  delight 
Comes  from  rose-thicket  a  melodious  prescience. 
Not  present  yet,  a  swift-advancing  Presence 
Dilates  the  air  with  breathings  exquisite. 
That  being'  about  to  be  !  how  perfect,  quite 
O'er  and  beyond  the  being's  very  essence. 
How  sweeter  than  all  joy  is  that  fleet  hour 
That  bringeth  joy  !    How  rarer  than  all  bliss 
Is  faith's  deep  thrill  before  the  trothal  kiss  ! 
O!  for  some  psychic  trick,  some  secret  power, 
To  pulse  that  moment  thro'  Eternity  !  — 
That  thrice  supreme — that  being  about  to  be! 

SHE  HELD  LIFE'S  DULCIMER. 
CHE  held  life's  dulcimer,  and  carelessly 

Brushed  o'er  its  diapason.     Hope  and  Fear, 
Sorrow  and  Joy,  Ambition  and  Despair — 
Unto  each  vital  chord,  each  fateful  "key, 
Her  heart,  with  more  or  less  of  sympathy; 
Responded.     But  'twas  not  till  unaware 
Upon  Love's  golden  string  she  dropt  a  tear, 
There  came  a  breath  of  such  pure  melody, 
Her  heart  leapt  up  within  her,  all  awake 
And  quivering  with  a  sacred  bliss — Ah,  take 
The  harp  away — it  is  enough,  I  said — 
The  keynote  struck,  the  destiny  is  read. 
Then  knew  I,  up  the  angel-guarded  road 
Of  loving  one  her  days  would  link  tow'rd  God. 


SONNETS.  181 

"  AND  EVERY  MORNING  AS  I  PASSED  HER 

BOWER." 

A  ND  every  morning  as  I  pass'd  her  bower, 
I  heard  her  singing  to  that  tender  key  ; 
/  love  you,  love  you,  love  you — thus  sang  she- 
/  love  you,  love  you,  love  you — till  a  shower 
Of  golden  love  notes  sprinkled  all  the  floor, 
And  spray 'd  the  air,  that  liquid  cadency 
Seep'd  thro'  the  casement  to  the  birds  and  me, 
Who  upleaning  drank,  and  drinking  upleaned  more. 
/  love  you,  love  you,  love  you — thus  she  sang  ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  her  ecstasy  there  rang 
A  minor  undercadence,  sweetly-sad, 
As  if  a  silver  thread  of  sorrowing 
Already  mingled  with  love's  golden  string; 
And  other  times  her  note  was  purely  glad. 

"HAVE  YOU  A  RIGHT,"  AT  FIRST  SHE 
ASK'D  HER  HEART. 

"  TJAVE  you  a  right,"  at  first  she  ask'd  her  heart, 
' '  To  this  great  happiness  that  love  bestoweth  ?  " 
And  soft  a  voice  made  answer,  "  God  He  knoweth 
When  and  to  whom  His  blessings  to  impart. 
Treasure  the  golden  largesse.     If  thou  art 
Unworthy  of  such  bounty,  it  but  showeth 
How  his  omnifluent  mercy  overfloweth 
The  meagre  measure  of  thy  life's  desert." 
And  so  she  locked  the  God-gift  in  her  soul, 
And  said,  "  I  will  live  nearer  to  my  God — 
So  near  as  lieth  in  a  human's  might ; 


182  SONNETS. 

With  noble  thoughts  and  deeds  I  shall  extol 
My  spirit  till  it  cleave  its  mortal  clod — 
And  doubt  not  if  my  rapture  be  my  right." 

"I  LOVE  YOU  SO." 

"  T  LOVE  you  so,  mine  every  thought  is  sweet," 
She  sang,  ' '  and  burden  light  because  of  it. 
I  love  you  so,  that  should  I  love  one  whit 
More  than  I  do,  mine  heart  would  cease  to  beat. 
As  liquids  when  they  have  attain' d  the  heat 
Of  boiling  do  the  chemist's  skill  outwit 
To  make  them  hotter — sooner  apt  to  quit 
Liquidity — even  so  do  I,  replete 
With  loving  you,  defy  the  power  of  art 
To  drop  one  lovedrop  more  into  mine  heart 
Till  Heaven  have  deepen' d  its  capacity. 
I  love  you  so,  that  if  I  could  not  be 
Myself  so  loving — all  the  world  above, 
I  would  be  you,  inspiring  such  a  love." 


"  CAN  TIME,  THOU  ASK'ST,  MY  HEART 

FROM  THINE  ESTRANGE?" 
"  PAN  time,   thou  ask'st,   my    heart    from    thine 

estrange?  " 

She  sang,  "  Beloved,  love  thou  dost  but  mock  ! 
Can  hearts  that  love  find  time  in  time  to  change  ? — 
That  one  tick  of  the  great  celestial  clock 
The  angels  hear,  wherein  we  can  but  clasp 
The  thing  we  love  and  lay  it  on  the  tomb — 


That  fleeting  breath,  wherein  we  can  but  grasp 
The  keys  of  Heaven,  when  lo  !  the  gates  uploom 
And  we  stand  trembling  on  the  outer  side. 
Ask,  rather,  can  a  breeze  fan  out  the  sun  ? 
Love  is  eternal.     Heaven  is  its  throne, 
Infinitude  its  limit,  God  its  guide. 
And  time  can  only  teach  to  thee  and  me 
A  golden  prelude  to  a  love  to  be." 

"EARTH  HATH  MOMENTS." 
"  JJELOVED,  earth  hath  moments  when  we  need 
No  proofs  of  Heav'n,"  she  sang — "rare  drops 

of  time 

That  fall  like  elixir  from  celestial  clime 
Into  the  inner  consciousness  and  spread 
A  sense  of  Eden  thro'  the  wearied  head. 
Our  spirits  pulse  !  spurn  their  material  slime, 
And  leap,  enfranchised,  to  a  height  sublime 
To  which  nor  science  nor  ritual  nor  creed 
Had  ever  builded.     Thus,  this  golden  trice, 
When  thou  dost  let  the  heaven  of  thine  eyes 
Drop  on  my  stricken  brows — now  dews  of  pity, 
Now  beams  of  love,  now  cataracts  of  kisses — 
Ah,  love  !  one  leaps,  in  such  an  hour  as  this  is, 
The  jasper  walls  of  the  Celestial  City. 

"THE  PENDULUM  MUST  HAVE  THE  BACK- 
WARD SWING." 
'THE  pendulum  must  have  the  backward  swing  : 

Thus  at  what  time  I  saw  her  raptur'd  soul 
Drawn  to'ards  beatitude's  extremest  pole, 


184  SONNETS. 

I  knew,  ere  long  some  secret  inner  spring 

Would  snap  and  send  it  earthward  fluttering. 

Thus  swing  our  pendulum  lives,  'twixt  joy  and  dole, 

'Twixt  Heaven  and  earth,  until  the  twelfth-hour  toll 

Our  destiny  and  loose  our  shackled  wing 

To  go  the  way  that  hath  no  backward  course. 

Sweet    Spirit    of   Temperance !    steady    thou    our 

dreams — 

Poise  thou  our  wing  mid-heav'n,  teach  us  to  miss 
Both  quicksand  peak  of  joy  and  slough  of  remorse. 
Yet,  Youth,  we  thank  thee  for  these  keen  extremes 
That  fit  us  better  for  the  eternal  choice. 

"SOME  DAY." 

«  COME  DAY — some  day  " — She  had  a  gentle  way 

Of  singing  that,  that  made  it  sound  so  sad 
And  far,  far  off.     "Some  day  we  shall  be  glad 
Again,  Beloved,  and  our  tardy  May 
Will  bring  the  redder  roses  for  the  gray 
And  cheerless  winter  that  so  long,  has  had 
Its  roots  deep-buried  in  its  snowy  bed. 
Mine  own  !  we  shall  be  happy  yet — some  day. 
God  will  forgive  us  if  we  love  too  much, 
Or  gently  chasten  us  with  Gilead  touch — 
He  knoweth  that  we  love  thro'  Him  alone — 
Then  ever  and  aye  let  us  be  true,  mine  own  ! 
Here  or  beyond  the  stars,  I  may  not  say, 
We  shall  be  happy  yet,  some  day— some  day." 


185 


THALIA  AND  TERPSICHORE. 

soft  spell  of  Eros— hearken  there  ! 
A  sudden  rustling-  in  the  myrtle  trees, 
A  merry  laughter  ringing  on  the  breeze — 
Terpsichore  and  Thalia,  blooming  pair  ! 
One  might  have  known  ye  twain  were  hiding  here, 
With  flageolet  and  mask,  sweet  love  to  tease. 
Yet  stay,  bright  goddesses  !   Your  spirits  please 
Me  well.     We  poets  and  lovers  cannot  spare 
Your  merry  intermeddling  with  our  moods, 
Lest  we  should  reach  more  wide,  or  soar  more  high, 
Or  dive  more  deep,  than  wisdom's  reed  can  measure. 
My  hand,  idyllic  Thalia  !  which  includes 
The  lighter  half  my  heart,  lent  cheerfully. 
My  foot,  Terpsichore1? — Mon  metre,  avec  plaisif  ! 

"WERE  I  A  ROSE- VINE  IN   HER   GARDEN 
GROWING." 

(To  Music.) 

"UTERE  I  a  rose-vine  in  her  garden  growing, 

Blowing,  I'd  grow  so  high,  I'd  blow  so  white, 
So  high  and  white  I'd  grow  and  blow,  at  night, 
She'd  think  'twas  day,  and  when  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing 

My  petals  thither  and  yon,  she'd  think  'twas  snowing — 
So  thick,  so  quick,  they'd  dance  and  glance,  so  light, 
So  bright.     And  when  with  all  its  dainty  might 
Her  tiny  trowel  o'er  my  roots  came  plowing,      . 
By  kind  degrees  I'd  loose  my  earth-grip  tight — 
So  subtly  she  would  think  'twas  all  her  doing  ! 


186  SONNETS. 

But  when  old  Winter  came  with  frost  and  blight, 
I'd  turn  on  him  a  countenance  unknowing — 
Yea,  scorn  him,  thorn  him,  till  he  took  his  flight- 
Were  I  a  rose-vine  in  her  garden  growing. 

A  VIRGINIA  MOONSET. 

CCENE  :  Lovely  Orange-on-the-Rapidan  ; 

At  Peliso,  headquarters  once  of  Lee, 
That  only  perfect  man  in  history. 
Time :   MoonseL     Cast — nay  !    that  would  mar  the 

scene. 

Some  landskips  need  no  persons,  I  ween, 
To  give  them  sympathy,  whatever  be 
The  opinions  of  the  schools.    Ideality 
Could  only  hold  the  mirror  here  :  in  vain 
Were  any  added  touch  of  fancy's  brush. 
Pale,  tottering  Lady  Moon  !  thy  waning  charms 
Were  ever  most  alluring.    A  deep  hush 
Is  over  all.    Almost  I  hear  her  steps. 
Now — alas  !  my  persons — in  his  brave  arms 
The  Blue  Ridge  folds  her,  softly — and  she  sleeps. 

"MAY'ST  PEEL  ME  A  PEACH?" 

TVTAY'ST  peel  me  a  peach  ?  Aye  me  !  had  Byron  seen 

Thee  at  table,  Lady,  he  had  never  made 
That  uncouth  speech  of  his  on  breaking  bread 
With  women  :  rather  than  out  of  love,  I  ween 
He  had  fallen  more  in  love  with  thee,  thou  queen 
Of  hostesses  ! — whose  snowy  board  doth  spread 
Such  dainty,  dainty  viands  as  might  be  fed 


SONNETS.  187 

To  Euterpe,  seated  on  the  Pierian  green — 

Can  I,  her  humble  harpbearer,  resist 

So  delicate  homage,  from  a  hand  so  chaste, 

A  board  so  hospitable  ?    An'  thou  insist, 

Aye  !  peel  me  a  peach,  but  peel  it  not  in  haste. 

Beseech  thee  !  not  so  nigh — but  let  me  reach, 

Lest  I  mistake  the  fingers  for  the  peach  ! 

MAM  AGGY.— I. 
"\17ITH  snowy-white  bandanna,  knotted  neat 

About  her  head,  and  one  pinn'd  round  her  neck, 
Tri-corner'd,  o'er  her  dazzling  homespun  check, 
I  see  her  on  the  kitchen  door-sill  seat 
Her  faithful  down,  the  golden  yelks  to  beat 
For  Sunday's    pound-cake — 'round   and   'round  so 

quick 

A  fluttermill  had  envied  her  the  trick  ! 
What  time  with  straws  I  might  manipulate 
The  frothing  whites — which,  spill' d  upon  the  ground, 
I  now  bewail.     She  puts  her  black  arms  'round 
Me  soothingly — no  chiding  word  is  spoken — 
And  sings,  ' '  Dah-den ! ' ' — seeing   that  my  heart  is 

broken — 

"Dah-den,  dah-den  " — till  I  rock  off  to  sleep. 
The  cake  ? — O  never  mind  that.     Eggs  are  cheap. 

MAM  AGGY.— II. 
CHE  had  but  one  tooth  to  her  homely  name, 

And  that  but  strong  enough  to  munch  a  jumble, 
Or  meatskins,  crispt  till  they  fell  all  a-crumble — 
Or  very  mellow  pears.     I  liked  the  same. 


188  SONNETS. 

So  sometimes  she  need  dodge  me,  poor  old  Mam ! 

But  ah  !  when  on  the  green  I  had  a  tumble, 

And  lay  there  very  still  and  white  and  humble, 

How  like  a  ministering  angel  then  she  came  ! 

And  lifted  me,  and  sang  that  fond  refrain 

That  always  carried  healing  on  its  wings. 

And  to  this  day  when  in  its  venturings 

My  spirit  gets  a  tumble  on  life's  green, 

From  memory's  phonograph  there  comes  again 

That  Gilead  lullaby— "  Dah-den,  Dah-den." 

THE  MINUET. 

TN  powder' d  periwig,  and  ruffled  shirt, 

And  proud  knee-breeches  with  resplendent  girth, 
Our  pious  grandpere  led  our  grandemere  forth, 
In  bounteous  mutton  legs  and  swelling  skirt, 
In  stately  minuet  to  take  a  part, 
Ye  olden  days,  or  ere  the  giddy  earth 
A-jigging  went,  alack  ! — No  time  for  mirth, 
No  time  for  frivolous  twirling  heart  to  heart, 
To  lightsome  roundelay — no  time  for  fun ; 
But  time  for  grave  consideration, 
Time  for  deliberating  means  and  ways, 
For  exercising  heaven-bestowed  talents — 
A  coupee—and  a  long  step — and  a  balance. 
They  danc'd  in  sonnets  in  ye  olden  days. 


189 


THE    HEAVENLY    MUSE. 


^S  out  this  vale  I  merged,  a  fulgent  light 

Burst  o'er  my  vision,  blinding  me  with  bliss— 
An  effluence  supernal.     Certes  'tis 
The  beam  that  quenched  Chaos  and  Old  Night, 
In  the  beginning,  and  did  put  to  flight 
The  Stygian  desolation.     Thus,  I  wis, 
Blinded  by  beatific  dizziness, 
That  ancient  shepherd  stood,  when  Oreb1  s  height 
Blazed  forth  God's  secret.    From  no  oracle 
Aonian  could  such  luminous  essence  stream  ; 
yTis  Sinai's  mount,  or  Zion's  holy  hill, 
In  gradual  outline,  with  white  wings  a-gleam, 
And  dove-like  brooding  o'er  Siloa's  strand, 
The  Heavenlv  Muse  extendeth  me  a  hand. 

INVOCATION. 

C\  THOU  who  leanest  forth  in  splendor  calm, 

Amidst  the  golden  whirl  of  chiming  spheres, 
To  catch  the  soft  fall  of  Thy  children's  tears, 
And  pour  out  universes  from  Thy  palm  ; 
Teach  me  from  out  my  soul  to  lift  a  psalm 
Not  all-unmeet  for  omnisentient  ears, 
Which  thro'  the  distance  hear  the  mellowing  years 


190  SONNETS. 

Glide  down  the  stalk  of  Time,  like  drops  of  balm- 
Which  heard  the  Future  even  before  the  Past, — 
Touch  Thou  my  spirit  in  its  protean  youth 
To  nobler  issues,  so  that  when  above 
Thy  summons  call  me,  I  shall  have  amast 
Something  to  lay  upon  the  fane  of  Truth, 
Something  to  offer  at  the  shrine  of  Love. 

MIZPAH. 

A  CALYX  of  dead  rose-leaves.     I  know  not 
If  Mareschal  Niel,  or  Nonpareil,  or  Tea, 
La  France,  or  Cloth  of  Gold,  or  Cherokee, 
Countess  of  Folkstone,  or  Marie  Van  Hout, 
Or  Rainbow — time  hath  wiped  the  colors  out. 
I  only  know  a  lov'd  one  gave  it  me, 
And  'twixt  two  sacred  leaves  I  reverently 
Laid  it,  to  mark  a  well-beloved  spot 
In  Genesis.     Beneath  the  golden  skies 
Of  southern  California  there  is 
A  giant  pepper-tree,  whose  utmost  bark, 
To  its  limbs'  ends,  is  o'er-flec&d  with  La  Marque 
Roses.     For  this  magnificent  bouquet 
Would  I  exchange  these  faded  rose-leaves  ?    Nay. 

GOD  FIRST. 
"  POD  first,  and  then  we  cannot  love  too  well." 

So  be  it,  Dearest,  betwixt  thee  and  me. 
God  first,  and  last,  and  all,  and  let  us  be 
Dear  to  each  other  only  as  we  dwell 
In  Him,  and  He  in  us.     Emanuel, 
"  God  with  us,"  be  our  passport- word  ;  which  we 


SONNETS.  191 

May  well  link  out  with  kisses,  joyously ; 

Or  chime  to  laughter,  like  a  silver  bell  ; 

Or  music  out  in  sonnet  or  in  song ; 

Or  balm  with  tears  of  tender  sacrifice  ; 

Or  pass  in  silent  sympathy  along 

The  happy  level  of  our  trustful  eyes  ; 

Or  waft  in  prayer-waves  to  that  far  sweet  home, 

Where  Christ  will  keep  the  echo  till  we  come. 

GRACE. 
HTH  AT  which  sufficient  for  us  is ;  whereby 

Our  strength  in  weakness  may  be  perfected. 
That  which  from  Heaven  is  like  sunshine  shed, 
Alike  upon  the  lowly  and  the  high — 
Which  even  the  poorest  may  most  richly  enjoy — 
Withheld  but  from  the  proud.    What  to  a  blade 
Of  summer  grass,  that  hangs  a  dying  head, 
A  drop  of  evening  dew  is,  gradually 
Seeping  into  its  roots ;  that  unto  faith, 
Tried  in  the  furnace,  is  a  drop  of  grace 
Shed  from  the  Mercy  Seat.     What  to  the  path 
Of  the  lost  pilgrim  in  the  wilderness 
The  Evening  Star  is,  that  is  grace  to  doubt. 
That  which  what  life  were  blameless,  being  without  ? 

"WE    MAKE    MISTAKES,   AND    GOD    O'ER- 

RULETH  THEM." 
1/ffE  make  mistakes,  and  God  o^erruleth  them" 

To  me,  once  sitting  at  her  feet,  she  said. 
I  took  the  crystal  thought,  all  unafraid, 
And  held  it  where  God's  pure  sunlight  could  stream 


192  SONNETS. 

Thro'  it  full  into  my  heart ;  and,  in  this  beam, 
The  past  was  simplified  and  hallowed. 
Doubt-mists  shone  rainbows  ;  mysteries  outspread 
Transparent  wings  ;  blocks  that  did  barriers  seem 
Prov'd  pavingstones,  or  curbstones,  for  the  strait 
And  narrow  way  that  leads  to  Heaven's  gate ; 
Briers  were  rosebuds  ;  wither' d  leaves,  rich  soil ; 
Sorrows  were  sacred  backgrounds,  joys  to  foil. 
So  in  faith's  crown  I  set  as  central  gem — 
"  We  make  mistakes,  and  God  o'erruleth  them." 

BEATITUDE  THE  SECOND. 

TJER  life,  she  said,  a  blessed  one  had  been. 

Then  whyfore,  was  my  wonder,  is  her  face 
So  sorrow-chasten' d  ?    Now  full  well  I  trace 
Beatitude  the  second  in  her  mien, — 
A  dying-daily  unto  self,  I  ween, 
A  pressing  onward  in  the  sacred  race, 
Sandal' d  with  faith  and  panoplied  with  grace ; 
A  heartache  there  I  read,  grown,  to  a  serene 
Patience,  thro'  easing  aches  of  others'  hearts, 
And  thro'  prayer-service.     Aye,  a  blessed  life, 
And  clear  to  read.     As  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
Mother,  and  friend,  she  has  climb' d  the  Christian  stair, 
To  where  reflected  Heaven-light  imparts 
A  peace  that  makes  her  widow' d  face  a  prayer. 


SONNETS.  193 

IDA  ASH. 
UOW  did  she  come  to  me  ? — or  was  it  I 

Who  came  to  her  ? — or  did  we  come  together 
Of  one  accord?    I  know  nor  whence  nor  whither 
We  twain  were  journeying — was  it  yesterday, 
Or  some  dim  preexistence  ? — Destiny, 
With  iron  tread — or  Chance,  blown  like  a  feather — 
Or  clash  of  wandering  stars — or  freak  of  weather, 
That  brought  our  hands  to  clasp  in  sympathy, 
Our  eyes  to  meet  in  music,  and  our  souls 
To  leap  en  rapport  ? — Nay  !  as  well  divine 
Which  of  two  intermelting  dewdrops  rolls 
First  into  the  other.     Whyfore  seek  a  sign  ? 
I  only  know,  'twas  night :  a  voice :  a  flash 
Of  nereid  eyes — then  day — and  Ida  Ash. 


194 


PARABLES. 


THE  SOWER. 
DEHOLD,  a  sower  goeth  forth  to  sow. 

Some  seed  fall  by  the  wayside,  and  are  there 
Of  fowls  devour' d.     Some  where  the  earth  is  rare 
And  stony  fall,  upspring,  but  are  laid  low, 
Being  rootless,  by  the  morrow's  sun.     Some  blow 
Their  careless  way  amidst  the  thorn  and  brier, 
Flourish  a  day,  then  seized  and  choked  are. 
But  other  some  in  good  ground  fall,  and  grow. 
Thus  at  Gennesaret,  beside  the  sea, 
What  time  the  multitudes  were  gather' d  round, 
First  parabled  the  great  Sower — even  He 
Whose  every  word-seed,  rooted  in  good  ground, 
An  hundredfold  to-day  is  bringing  forth 
Of  joy  and  peace  in  all  the  ends  of  earth. 

THE  WHEAT  AND  THE  TARES. 
A  SECOND  parable  put  He  forth  and  said, 

Again  heaven's  kingdom  may  be  liken' d  to 
A  man  who  with  good  seeds  his  field  did  sow, 
But  whilst  his  servants  slept  there  entered 
The  enemy  sowing  tares,  that  where  the  blade 
Of  wheat  upsprung,  upsprung  the  tare-blade  too. 
The  servant  of  the  householder  would  go 


SONNETS.  195 

To  uproot  them,  but  his  master  him  forbade, 

Saying,  Nay,  lest  peradventure  unawares 

Thou  uproot  the  wheat-blade  likewise.     Side  by  side 

Till  harvest  time  together  let  them  bide  ; 

Then  say  to  the  reapers,  Gather  first  the  tares, 

Bundle  and  bind  and  burn  them  ;  then  the  wheat 

Into  my  storehouse  garner,  clean  and  sweet. 

THE  MUSTARD  SEED,  THE  LEAVEN,  AND 
THE  GOODLY   PEARL. 

A  GAIN  unto  a  grain  of  mustard  seed 
Our  poet  Saviour  similizes  heaven 
Establishing  its  throne  on  earth, — which,  even 
Tho'  smallest  of  all  seeds  it  be  indeed, 
Grows  yet  to  an  herb  the  branches  whereof  spread 
So  tree-like  that  therein  is  lodgment  given 
To  birds  of  the  air.     Again,  like  unto  leaven 
God's  kingdom  is,  the  which  a  woman  hid 
In  meal  three  measuresful,  till  lo,  the  whole 
Betimes  was  leaven 'd.     Now,  like  a  great-pric'd  gem, 
Which  when  the  merchant  saw  he  straightway  sold 
All  that  he  had  and  bought  it.     Thus  parable 
On  parable  at  Gennesaret  He  told, 
And  without  parable  spake  He  not  to  them. 

THE  TEN  TALENTS. 
QN  Olive's  mount  this  metaphor  He  drew : 
As  a  man  journeying  to  a  distant  land, 
So  is  God's  kingdom, — who  did  first  command 
His  stewards  'round  him,  that  his  revenue 


196  SONNETS. 

Be  husbanded.     Five  talents  one,  another  two, 
Another  one,  he  gave,  to  wisely  spend. 
He  with  the  five  and  he  with  the  two  did  lend 
Their  treasure  out  to  the  exchangers,  who 
Reimburs'd  it  to  them  doubled  ;  so  that  when 
Their  lord  return' d  he  said  to  them,  Well  done, 
Ye  good  and  faithful  servants  !     But  alas 
For  him  who  hid  his  talent,  having  but  one ; 
Which  when  his  master  heard,  his  edict  was, 
Take  it  from  him  and  give  to  the  one  with  ten. 


THE  TEN  VIRGINS. 

"\17ENT  forth  with  lamps  ten  virgins  once  to  meet 
The  bridegroom.     Five  were  wise,  and  they  did 

bare 

Oil  in  their  vessels,  and  five  foolish  were, 
And  they  no  oil  took  with  them.     Whilst  that  yet 
The  bridegroom  tarried,  all  in  slumber  sweet 
O'erpass'd  the  hours,  till  on  the  midnight  air 
There  came  a  cry,  The  bridegroom  doth  appear  ! 
Then  forthwith  got  the  virgins  to  their  feet. 
Pray  give  us  of  your  oil,  the  foolish  plead, 
Our  empty  lamps  to  fill.     But  made  reply 
The  wise,  Not  so,  but  go  ye  forth  and  buy. 
What  time  they  went,  the  wise  were  welcom'd  in 
The  chamber  by  the  bridegroom.     Later  when 
The  foolish  knockt,  I  know  you  not,  he  said. 


197 


THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 
rjNE  ask'd,  Who  is  my  neighbor?    Jesus  said  : 

A  certain  man  going  from  Jerusalem 
Fell  among  thieves,  who  stript  and  wounded  him, 
And  then  departed,  leaving  him  half  dead. 
By  chance  that  way  a  certain  priest  estray'd, 
But  when  the  wounded  would  his  pity  claim, 
He  pass'd  by  on  the  other  side.     The  same 
A  certain  Levite  did,  which  saw  and  fled. 
But  now  a  good  Samaritan  pass'd  near, 
And  seeing  him  took  pity,  and  did  pour 
Oil  in  his  wounds,  and  to  an  inn  did  bear 
Him  swift,  and  left  him  there,  provided  for. 
Which  now  was  neighbor  unto  him  that  fell  ? 
He  that  compassion  had.     Thou  answerest  well. 

THE   LOST  SHEEP. 
MURMUR' D  a  Pharisee,  Lo,  publican 

Receiveth  He,  and  doth  with  sinner  dine. 
Then  allegorically  did  He  define 
His  purpose  therein,  saying,  Now  what  man, 
Having  an  hundred  sheep,  is  there,  who,  when 
He  lose  one,  doth  not  leave  the  ninety- and-nine, 
Back  to  the  fold  his  wandering  sheep  to  win  ? — 
Which  having  found,  rejoicingly  then 
Bearing  it  home,  he  saith  to  his  neighbors,  Lo, 
That  which  was  lost  is  found ;  rejoice  with  me. 
In  the  presence  of  the  angels,  even  so 
O'er  one  returning  sinner  is  more  bliss 
Than  over  ninety-and-nine  just  persons  is, 
Which  have  not  gone  astray.     Thus  answer' d  He. 


198 


THE  UNMERCIFUL  SERVANT. 
'THIS  lesson  taught  He  at  Capernaum  : 

Once  of  his  servants  all  a  certain  king 
Did  take  account,  and  on  discovering 
One  was  his  debtor  to  a  goodly  sum, 
Which  he  had  not  to  pay,  he  bade  him  come 
Before  him  to  be  bound.     But  he  did  fling 
Him  prostrate  down  with  such  a  piteous  spring 
Of  tears,  the  king  relax' d,  unfix' d  his  doom, 
And  gave  him  time  of  grace.     As  out  he  past, 
A  fellow-slave  he  met  which  was  his  debtor, 
Whom,  when  he  pray'd  for  grace,  he  bound  in  fetter. 
The  king  now,  waxen  wroth,  the  ingrate  cast 
To  the  tormentors,  till  he  pay  his  dues. 
Likewise  the  unforgiving  God  will  use. 

THE   RICH   FOOL. 
A    CERTAIN  rich  man's  ground  brought  forth  much 

grain. 

Within  himself  he  thought,  What'shall  I  do?— 
Seeing  that  he  had  no  place  where  to  bestow 
His  fruits.     This  shall  I  do,  he  thought  again — 
Pull  down  my  barns  and  greater  build ;  which  when 
I  have  done,  unto  my  soul  I  shall  say,  Lo, 
My  soul,  look  thou  about  thee  and  see  how 
Much  goods  for  many  years  thou  hast  uplain ; 
Eat,  drink,  and  take  thine  ease,  and  merry  be. 
But  came  God's  voice  from  Heaven,  saying,  Thou 

fool, 
This  night  shall  be  requir'd  of  thee  thy  soul. 


SONNETS.  199 

Whose  then  shall  be  this  bounty  thou  dost  hoard  ? 
Who  layeth  up  treasure  on  earth,  even  so  is  he, 
Not  being  rich  toward  God.     Thus  taught  our  Lord. 

THE  FIG-TREE  AND  ALL  THE  TREES. 

T  OVE  shall  wax  cold,  and  friends  offence  shall  take, 
Break  faith,  and  part,  and  hate  with  rancorous 

passion ; 

New  Christs  arise,  with  such  smooth  revelation 
The  faith  of  all  but  the  elect  'twill  shake ; 
Earth,  slinking  to  some  pestilent  hole,  shall  quake— 
The  sun  a  shroud  spread  o'er  her  tribulation. 
In  those  days  shall  be  that  abomination 
Of  desolation  whereof  Daniel  spake. 
Then  shall  God's  angels  come  with  bugles  down, 
And  gather  in,  from  heav'n's  four  winds,  His  own. 
Behold  the  fig-tree  now,  and  all  the  trees. 
When  they  bud  forth  then  know  ye  is  summer  nigh, 
So  when  these  signs  abound  know  ye  thereby 
Appeareth  suddenly  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

AT  TRUTH'S   DOOR. 

17NOCK,  and  it  shall  be  open'd  unto  thee; 
Not  once  and  softly,  but  again  and  yet 
Again,  even  until  honest  sweat-beads  set 
Thy  brow  with  labor's  gems — reiterately 
Knock  without  ceasing,  midnight,  dawn  and  day, 
Thro'  numbing  winter  and  thro'  summer  heat — 
And,  ah  !  thro'  all  the  low  south' s  breathing  sweet 
Alluring  spices  in  the  opposing  way. 


200  SONNETS. 

The  deeper  be  the  silence  therewithal, 
The  louder,  steadier  be  thy  summoning. 
And  if  it  chance,  as  thou  dost  breathless  lean 
Against  the  door,  thou  hear  some  little  thing 
Creak  at  thine  ardor — faint  not,  neither  cringe  : 
'Tis  envy  percht  upon  the  yielding  hinge. 

FAITH  AND   SUPERSTITION. 

blind  men  thro'  death's  valley-shadows  dense 
Once  I  saw  journeying.     By  two  asses  one 
Was  led :  his  name  was  Superstition ; 
The  asses  were  Hearsay  and  Ignorance — 
With  many  an  awkward  balk  and  freakish  prance 
Now  dragging  jerkily,  now  on  the  run, 
They  led  him  helter-skelter,  while  the  sun 
Sunk  surely  o'er  the  hill-tops.     At  one  glance 
I  observ'd  the  other  kept  an  even  path 
Unerring  toward  the  light,  tho'  likewise  blind. 
Approaching  him,  in  reverence,  from  behind, 
I  ask'd  why  this  great  difference?    He  said, 
Tho'  blind,  I  feel  the  light — my  name  is  Faith. 
He  cannot  feel,  so  thus  wise  needs  be  led. 


201 


ABRAHAM. 

PLAY  that  did  lack  a  flaw — the  potter's  choice 

To  mould  a  vessel  for  His  special  grace — 
Obedient  Abram  !  with  thy  heaven-turned  face, 
And  ear  uplifted  for  the  guiding  Voice. 
What  wonder,  when  the  message  from  the  skies 
Came  suddenly  down,  thou  wast  found  in  thy  place, 
Ready  to  sign  the  covenant  and  to  embrace 
The  heavenly  adoption ;  ready  to  rise 
Out  of  thy  "  Abram  "-hood,  thy  "  fatherhood," 
To  "Abraham,"  "father  of  a  multitude?" 
As  in  unquestioning  obedience  bow'd 
Thou  standest  there,  to  doubting  Thomases 
How  art  thou  a  divine  antithesis, 
Thou  "Father  of  the  Faithful  "—"Friend  of  God." 

JACOB. 

'THAT  champion  wrestler  of  the  spiritual  world, 

Jacob  ! — who  fac'd  the  Almighty  at  Peniel 
In  battle,  nor  would  let  Him  go  until 
He  brought  the  blessing    down — thrice    earthward 

hurl'd, 

Upspringing  thrice  again — he  sway'd — he  swirl'd — 
Nightlong  he  wrestled,  till  at  last  he  fell, 
Thigh-pierced,  disjointed — but  victorious  still ! 


202  SONNETS. 

No  longer  now  a  zealous  dreamer,  curl'd 

At  foot  of  heavenly  ladder,  whereupon 

Angels  ascending  and  descending  run 

God's  errands  whilst  He  slept ;  no  longer  call'd 

Jacob,  "supplanter,"  but  a  king,  install' d 

With  heavenly  insignia  and  diadem, 

Israel,  "soldier  of  God " — root  of  the  Lamb. 

JOSEPH. 
'THOU  rainbow  Joseph  !   How  the  feminine  eye, 

Down-diving  thro'  antiquity's  abysses, 
Delighteth  in  thy  pearl — ah  !  surely  this  is 
A  pearl  of  goodly  price,  man's  chastity — 
A  jewel  to  carry  with  him  to  the  sky. 
As  modesty  a  woman's  chiefest  grace  is, 
So  chastity  a  man's.     In  ancient  places 
We  find  no  rarer  type  than  thine  (we  sigh 
Amidst  our  admiration,  since  so  rare) 
And  wear  thee  in  our  heart  because  of  it, 
Chiefly.     Though  we  would  not  withal  forget 
Thine  other  Christ-like  charm,  almost  as  sweet — 
Thy  spirit  of  forgiveness.     If  my  prayer 
Were  for  one  double  portion,  'twere  of  that. 

MOSES. 
'THOU  who  conceiv'dest  the  beginning  of  things, 

Who  broughtest  God's  creation  to  the  front, 
And  borest  with  thy  staff  and  rod  the  brunt 
Of  genesis  warfare — without  horse  or  wings — 
Monarch  foot-soldier,  ancient  King  of  kings  ! — 


SONNETS.  203 

Who  parley 'd'st  with  the  Almighty  on  the  mount ; 

And  smotest  granite  into  crystal  fount ; 

Braving  the  darkness,  famine,  plagues,  and  stings 

Of  the  Egyptian  exodus  ;  who  did'st  toil 

Thro'  genealogic  numberings ;  and  compile 

The  law  Levitical,  with  nicest  care  ; 

And  recapitulate,  laboriously, 

A  tedious  length  of  deuteronomy — 

At  last  to  glimpse  sweet  Canaan  from  afar. 

JOB. 
TJPLOOMING  in  peculiar  majesty, 

The  epic  hero  of  the  ancient  Word — 
Martyr  of  Uz  ! — Let  other  harps  be  stirr'd 
To  paean  thy  patience — thine  independence  be 
My  extolling  theme.     Now,  like  some  giant  tree, 
Storm-tost,  yet  root-unshaken,  with  no  bird 
To  cheer  thy  branches,  but  a  few  absurd 
Crows  cawing  there  a  hollow  mockery 
Of  consolation — which  thou  dost  outspew 
As  did  the  mouth  divine  the  Laodicean 
Lukewarmness.     Prostrate  now,  with  pain  a-squirm, 
But  to  thy  conscious  uprightness  still  true, 
Lifting  to  Him  who  slayeth  a  trustful  paean, 
And  scorning  human  criticism,  tho'  a  worm. 

ISAIAH. 

PLARION  of  Christ,  herald  of  Calvary- 
Isaiah  !  "the  gospel  prophet  " — without  peer 
Save  only  one,  the  Apocalyptic  seer — 
How  was  Jerusalem's  idolatry 


204  SONNETS. 

O'er-rioting  her  ancient  dignity, 
When  thou  did'st  startle  the  Judean  ear 
With  thine  alarum-trumpet,  bold  and  clear! 
Alas  !  and  how  thy  woeful  prophecy 
True  cameth  quickly!     Lo,  Jerusalem 
The  Beautiful,  where  crumbleth  now  thy  fame  ? 
But,  ah  !  how  comfortably  did'st  thou  forecast 
For  them  who  mourn  in  Zion  :  the  Beulah-feast, 
The  nuptials  of  the  Church  with  the  I  AM— 
The  marriage-supper  of  the  Bride  and  Lamb! 

CHRIST. 

T\  AY-SPRING,  Deliverer,  Just  and  Holy  One, 

The  Way,  the  Faithful  Witness,  Prince  of  Peace, 
The  Bread  of  God,  Lord  of  our  Righteousness, 
Our  Passover,  true  Vine,  and  Corner-stone, 
Adam  the  Second,  only  begotten  Son, 
Image  of  God,  desire  of  every  race, 
Our  Counselor,  our  Advocate  for  grace, 
The  Morning  Star,  Horn  of  Salvation, 
Root  and  offspring  of  David,  Israel's  Lamb, 
Shepherd  of  souls,  Emanuel,  the  I  AM, 
The  First  and  Last,  Salvation's  only  Name, 
Our  yesterday — to-day — for  aye  the  same, 
Light  of  the  world,  and  Conqueror  of  death, 
Author  and  Finisher  of  our  Faith. 


205 


JESUS. 

PHRIST-dazzled  eyes  we  turn  how  comfortably 
To  Thee,  O  gentle  Friend,  sweet  Nazarene  ! 
John-like  upon  thy  bosom  fain  to  lean. 
O  eyes  we  love  to  look  in  !  eyes  that  see 
Beneath  our  faults  our  human  frailty — 
Forgiving  eyes  !  and  hands  so  strong  and  clean 
We  love  to  feel  our  frail  hands  nestling  in  ; 
We  kiss  the  white  scars  where  thine  agony 
Once  flow'd  for  us,  the  stripes  that  heal'd  our  pain 
And  paid  the  price  of  our  infirmities, 
And  in  our  blissful  gratitude  are  fain 
To  separate  even  Judas  from  his  kiss, 
And,  if  we  have  them,  say  to  our  enemies, 
"To-morrow  meet  with  me  in  Paradise." 

JOHN. 
"\17H  Y  do  we  love  thee  most,  beloved  John  ? 

For  that  on  Jesus'  bosom  thou  did'st  lean — 
"Whom  Jesus  lov'd  " — no  sweeter  seal,  I  ween, 
Of  honor  ever  yet  was  set  upon 
A  human  brow — whom  Jesus  lov'd—  the  one 
Pure  lover  that  the  world  hath  ever  known, 
The  one  pure  bosom  that  hath  ever  been 
For  human  tenderness  a  blissful  throne — 
All  others  but  approximately  tend 
To  purity.     Aye,  even  as  a  friend 
Embosometh  a  friend,  did  Jesus  pin 
John  in  his  breast,  a  redolent  heart-blossom. 
Ah  !  I  do  love  to  think  that  Jesus  e'en 
Did  have  a  pet :  John  lean'd  upon  His  bosom. 


206  SONNETS. 

PETER. 

"  THENCEFORTH  arock."  What  time  the  Patmos  bliss 
We  wing  with  John,  'tis  safe  to  feel  that  thou, 
Peter,  art  our  foundation-stone  below, 
When  earthward  back  we  reel.   What  grace  was  this — 
"  Henceforth  a  rock  " — no  longer  to  Christ's  voice 
A  hearkener,  a  "Simon,"  but  even  now 
A  piece  of  that  firm  grantite  whence  did  flow 
The  Horeb  miracle — that  rock  which  is 
"  Higher  than  I,"  yet  deeper  than  very  hell — 
And  yet,  alas,  how  brief  a  time  until 
Thou  did'st  become  a  great  rock  of  offense, 
A  mount  of  salt,  a  river  of  penitence  ; 
But  soon  recrystalliz'd,  more  firm  and  better. 
With  Luther  we  "  thank  God  for  Simon  Peter ! " 

PAUL. 
TDAUL — giant  of  didactic  geniuses  ! 

Who,  God-informed,  dost  of  God  inform. 
Where  doth  thy  swift-revolving  ardor  charm 
Us  most  ? — Where  thou  dost  zealously  impress 
Upon  the  Roman  mind  God's  righteousness ; 
Or  liftest  the  Corinthian  alarm  ; 
Or  layest  bare  thy  lacerated  arm 
In  argument  with  Thessalonian  Greece  ; 
Or  in  Philippian  acknowledgment 
Minglest  with  gratitude  thy  discontent 
Divine,  at  man's  ingratitude  and  doubt  ? 
In  every  phase  we  find  thee  masterful, 
But  at  Damascus  thou'rt  most  admirable, 
Where  thou  the  courage  had'st  to  face  about. 


SONNETS.  207 

ISCARIOT. 

A    RARE  kaleidoscope  one  day  I  found — 
Logostos1  gift  to  man.     With  olive  tree 
'Twas  fram'd,  and  Shittim  wood  of  Araby ; 
In  Babylonian  leather  was  it  bound, 
And  with  pure  gold  of  Ophir  rimm'd  around. 
With  reverent  hand  I  turn'd  it  charmedly : 
Twelve  crystal  fragments  of  divinity, 
Combining  'round  one  central  diamond  : 
Chrysolite,  sardonyx,  jasper  and  sardius, 
Jacinth,  chrysoprasus,  beryl  and  emerald, 
Topaz,  chalcedone,  sapphire  and  amethyst — 
The  apostolic  twelve — all  luminous, 
Save  flaw'd  Iscariot,  a  beryl  cold, 
Refracting  e'en  the  rays  of  diamond  Christ. 

EVE. 
f\R.  ere  into  their  bower  of  innocence 

The  guileful  serpent-fiend  had  glittering  stalkt, 
And  smooth  into  her  charmed  ear  had  talkt 
That  honeyed  and  perditious  confidence 
For  which  our  earthly  woe  is  recompense — 
Which  earth's  prime  Paradisian  purpose  balkt ; 
Whiles  yet  down  Eden-aisles  they  blissful  walkt, 
Or  ere  deflower' d  by  disobedience — 
Is  our  most  sweet  First  Mother  sweetest  here  ? 
Nay  !  for  since  when  in  the  heav'ns  God  hung  His  bow 
Beauty  but  comes  to  us  thro'  prism-ray 
Of  tear-mists.     Even  so  Eve  is  sweetest  where 
''They  hand  in  hand  with  wandering  steps  and  slow 
Thro'  Eden  took  their  solitary  way." 


208  SONNETS. 

CAIN'S  WIFE. 
EASTWARD  from  Eden  in  the  land  of  Nod, 

Cain  found  a  maiden  in  a  mist.    Whence  sprung, 
Who  knoweth  ?    Of  what  lineage  ?    Of  what  tongue  ? 
Whyfore  her  wandering  ?  and  whither  her  road  ? — 
Mysteries  unsearchable  by  word  of  God, 
Which  curtaining  silence  therearound  hath  hung. 
And  yet  'tis  meet  this  maid  be  not  unsung 
Of  psalmist,  and  to  her  be  not  unshow'd 
Some  gentle  deference  ;  for  the  saints  owe  much 
To  one  who  was  foremother  ' '  of  all  such 
As  handle  harp  and  organ."     Hence  I  am  fain 
To  brush  from  strings  of  mine  this  paean-strain 
To  Jubal's  ancestress — nay,  to  resist 
Thy  claim  is  past  my  power,  sweet  maid  o'  the  mist 

HAGAR. 
gEER-LAHAI-ROI,  the  well  between 

Kedesh  and  Bedad  in  Shur's  wilderness, 
Where  banisht  Hagar  in  midnight  distress 
Is  found  of  the  angel,  weeping — 'tis  the  scene 
Where  stand  with  claspt  hands  "Pathos  and  Chagrin 
And  interchange  their  subtlest  sympathies, 
Saddest  and  bitterest  of  heart-histories, — 
In  musing  down  the  storied  past  terrene. 
Of  the  seed-royal  visited,  innocently, 
Too  sudden  lifted  from  hand-maidenhood, 
What  wonder  danc'd  with  pride  the  Egyptian  blood, 
And  barren  Sarai  should  despised  be— 
She  banisht?    Now,  this  angel-promised  child — 
Ishmael — what  solace  !  "a  wandering  man  and  wild. " 


SONNETS.  209 

SARAH. 
TN  the  tent-door  in  Mamre's  plains  she  sat, 

Old  and  in  years  well-stricken,  whiles  her  lord 
Beneath  the  hospitable  tree  outpour 'd 
The  fragrant  milk,  and  serv'd  the  tender  meat 
Unto  the  angel  guests,  and  they  did  eat, 
What  time  she,  modest,  listen' d,  nor  once  stirr'd 
The  tent-door  from  behind.     What  wondrous  word 
Now  wooes  her  ear  and  makes  her  heart  to  beat 
A  laughing  lilt  ?    Sooth,  shall  she,  waxen  old, 
Of  God  be  visited,  as  is  now  foretold 
Of  heavenly  presence  ?    Comes  a  son  soon  after — 
Isaac  (which,  being  interpreted,  is  ' '  laughter ' ' ) — 
"The  father  of  twelve  princes."     Now  she  sleeps, 
Blest,  in  Machpelah's  cave.     And  Abraham  weeps. 

REBEKAH. 
'THREE  pictures  of  Rebekah  are  stain' d  upon 

The  temple-panes  of  sacred  reminiscence. 
jOne  where  with  bubbling  pitcher  tipt  she  hastens 
To  quench  the  stranger's  thirst — familiar  one. 
Now,  meeting  Isaac  where  he  stands  alone 
Beneath  the  meditating  stars,  she  fastens 
Her  modest  vail  about  her,  with  sweet  prescience 
Of  being  woo'd.     Here,  on  her  favorite  son, 
With  fingers  deft  and  most  exquisite  tact, 
She  sews  the  treacherous  kid-skins  to  deceive 
A  blind  deathbed  and  Esau  to  deprive, 
That  weakling,  of  the  blessing  coveted. 
Alas  the  guile  !  Yet,  rue  it  as  we  need, 
This  charms  us  too.     'Twas  such  a  mother's  act. 
14 


210  SONNETS. 

RACHEL. 

D  ACHEL,  the  damsel,  leadeth  Laban's  sheep 
To  well  of  Haran,  from  whose  mouth  away 
Jacob  the  stone  swift  rolleth,  and — sweet  day ! — 
Kisseth  her,  lifteth  his  voice  up,  and  doth  weep. 
Rachel,  the  wife,  high-mounted  on  the  steep 
Of  camel's  back,  with  nicest  policy, 
O'er  Laban's  household -gods  her  skirts  doth  lay, 
The  stolen  treasure  from  his  search  to  keep. 
Rachel,  the  mother,  with  prescient  despair, 
Lifteth  a  wail  and  bitter  lamentation, 
Which  pierceth  e'en  to  Jeremiah's  ear, 
And  is  fulfilled  in  Herod's  devastation. 
For  Bethlehem's  unborn  firstborn  weepeth  she, 
Slain  at  the  suck — nor  comforted  will  be. 

RUTH  AND  NAOMI. 
"WHERE    hast   thou    glean'd    to-day?"     What 

sweeter  twain 

Of  Bible  women  than  Naomi  and  J^.uth  ? — 
One  thrice-bereaved  and  a  widow  in  truth — 
"  Mara  " — her  blind  eyes  pouring  bitter  rain — 
Husbandless,  sonless,  desolated — fain 
To  flee  the  happy  meadows  of  her  youth, 
Now  barren  of  delight,  and  black  with  drought, 
For  Bethlehem  in  Judah,  there  to  glean 
Ephah  of  meagre  barley. — "Nay,  intreat 
Me  not  from  following  after  thee — 
Where  diest  thou  I  die,  there  buried  be." 
When  prone  at  Boaz'  amiable  feet, 
What  lifts  the  sweet  Moabitess  above 
Her  sex  ?    That  rarest  passion,  friendship-love. 


SONNETS.  211 

VASHTI. 
^HASUERUS  maketh  royal  feast. 

From  Ethiope's  border  and  from  India's  shore 
They  troop,  for  days  an  hundred  and  fourscore, 
To  Shushan's  hall — a  glittering  throng — to  test 
His  sumptuous  bounty,  and  the  night  to  waste 
In  purple  revelry.     "Whiles  yet  we  pour 
The  golden  vintage  down,  bring  ye  before 
My  majesty  the  Queen,"  is  his  behest, 
"  That  in  her  beauteous  charms  the  eyes  may  lave 
Of  these  my  merry  guests."     "  But  Queen  Vashti 
Refus'd  to  come,"  'tis  said.     O  charming  sound  ! 
Fine  spirit-flash  thro'  woman  history  ! 
"Vashti  the  Beautiful" — aye,  and  Vashti  the  brave — 
Who  to  be  modest  durst  to  be  discrown' d. 

DORCAS. 
"  pULL  of  good  works  and  almsdeeds  which  she  did." 

What  nobler  epitaph  on  tomb  to  grave 
Than  this  brief  character  the  Apostle  gave 
Dorcas  of  Joppa ?    'Round  the  sorrowing  bed 
(Where  Peter  swiftly  had  been  summoned) 
We  see  the  weeping  widows  stand  and  wave 
The  goodly  coats  and  garments  that  the  brave 
Deft  fingers  of  dame  Tabitha  had  made — 
Mayhap  in  midnight  watches — till,  alas, 
(How  simply  sad  the  words)  "it  came  to  pass 
That  she  was  sick  and  died."     But  "Tabitha,  arise," 
Saith  Peter  now ;  and,  as  she  opes  her  eyes, 
He  lifts  her  whole.     So  in  sweet  Beulah  Land 
May  Christ  take  all  dead  workers  by  the  hand. 


212  SONNETS. 

MIRIAM,  DEBORAH  AND  ANNA. 
CWEET  o'er  the  centuried  tumult  rise  the  calm 

Inspired  voices  of  three  women  seers, 
The  sacred  poetesses,  without  peers 
In  Israel.     First,  timbrel' d  Miriam, 
Leading  her  sisters,  with  victorious  psalm, 
Past  the  Red  Sea  into  the  heart  of  Shur's 
Brine-flowing  wilderness.     Next,  she  who  wears 
The  ermine — Deborah,  singing  'neath  her  palm, 
"The  mountains  melted  before  Israel's  host." 
Last,  widow' d  Anna — and  beloved  most — 
True  to  one  husband  more  than  threescore  years, 
Serving  the  Lord  with  fastings,  psalms  and  prayers 
Both  day  and  night.     First  after  Simeon 
To  lift  an  anthem  over  Mary's  Son. 

MAGDALENE. 

""U7OMAN,  why  weepest  thou  ?  "  "For  that  my  Lord 
Away  they  have  taken,  and  I  know  not  where 
Him  they  have  laid."    And  is  this  woman,  fair 
And  tender,  she  from  whom  the  'entering  Word 
Had  late  out-cast  seven  devils  ? — and  now  stirr'd 
By  such  sweet  desolation  for  her  dear 
Lost  Master.     Is  this  the  same  that  bare 
The  precious  alabaster  box  and  pour'd 
The  ointment  on  His  head,  and  washt  His  feet 
With  tears,  and  wiped  them  with  her  locks  of  hair  ? — 
Whose  sins,  tho'  many,  yet  were  first  forgiven, 
"For  she  loved  much" — O  judgment  pure  from 

Heaven ! 

"  Last  at  the  cross,  first  at  the  sepulchre  " — 
And  first  our  risen  Lord  went  forth  to  meet. 


213 


MARY. 

A  LL  gentle  influences  now  descend, 

From  whatsoever  sources  pure  and  high, 
And  hover  o'er  my  reverent  harp  whiles  I 
Sing  of  the  Mother  of  that  Heavenly  Friend 
Before  whom  every  knee  at  last  must  bend 
And  every  head  low  bow.    Sweet  mystery  ! — 
Virgin  conceiver  of  Emmanuel  by 
The  Holy  Spirit.     Name  most  reverend 
Of  womankind.     The  pearl  of  goodliest  price 
Washt  by  the  waves  of  time  from  Heaven's  shore 
To  shores  terrene.     Last,  sweetest  blossom  shed 
By  that  frail  flower,  humility,  ere  its  eyes 
It  clos'd  to  ope  this  side  of  Heaven  no  more. 
Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus — all  is  said. 


IN  THE  CRUCIBLE. 

T  WATCH'D  the  jeweler  fix  his  sensitive  eye 

Over  the  crucible,  turn  on  the  test 
Of  fire — now  gaze  with  nice-pois'd  interest 
Into  the  bubbling  ore.     No  passer-by 
Dare  near  him,  nor  with  pestering  questions  ply 
That  awful  monarchy  of  stillness,  lest 
The  sovereign  sense  be  jarr'd.     With  swift  arrest 
He  turns  the  white  heat  off,  for  instantly 
His  face  is  mirror' d — 'tis  done  ! 

Even  so,  I  thought, 

Hath  God  through  fires  of  affliction  brought 
His  chosen  ones,  to  where  they  imag'd  back 


214  SONNETS. 

His  features — when  His  hand  was  swift  to  slack 
The  testing-fires.     Then  came  into  my  mind 
One  face,  pain-purified  and  thrice-refined. 

"  IN  THOUGHT  THE  SEVEN  GREAT  MOUNTS 
I  VISITED." 

TN  thought  the  seven  great  mounts  I  visited 

That  sentinel  the  sacred  centuries  : 
First,  Ararat,  the  ark's  calm  resting-place  ; 
Next,  that  dear  Mizpah-heap  where  Laban  made 
The  covenant  with  Jacob — Gilead  ; 
Law-giving  Horeb,  then,  whereon  God's  face 
Shone  in  the  bush,  and  where  the  still  small  voice 
Came  to  Elijah ;  Sinai,  whence  were  read 
The  ten  commandments  ;  Ziorts  brow  serene, 
Where  rose  the  temple  ;  Pisgah,  from  whose  height 
Canaan  was  glimps'd  of  Moses,  ere  he  slept; 
And — grandest,  saddest — the  Ascension  scene, 
Sweet  Olivet,  where  David  made  his  flight 
From  Absalom  his  son — where  Jesus  wept. 

"THERE  ARE  TEN  PRECIOUS  STREAMS  I 
LOVE  TO  TRACE." 

'THERE  are  ten  precious  streams  I  love  to  trace 

Thro'  sacred  soil :  Hiddekel,  Euphrates, 
Pison,  and  Gihon,  bounding  Paradise ; 
Jabbok,  the  conquering  Jacob's  wrestling-place; 
Arnon,  where,  merging  out  the  wilderness, 
Moses  triumphant  landed  'neath  clear  skies  ; 


215 


The  brook  of  Cherith,  where,  led  of  God's  voice, 
Elijah  hid  and  was  for  many  days 
Fed  of  the  ravens ;  Kishon,  where  the  brave 
Deborah  rais'd  her  matchless  song  of  praise 
At  Sisera's  defeat — death-pool  of  Baal. 
Kedron,  of  Christ  cross' d,  after  the  betrayal ; 
And — noblest,  dearest— Jordan's  blessed  wave, 
Our  Saviour  suffer' d  to  o'ersweep  His  face. 

A  PSALM  OF  COMFORT. 

MOURNERS  in  Zion,  your  mourning  is  not  vain. 
Comfort  ye  !    God  is  powerful,  God  is  kind : 
His  promise  is,  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
The  feeble  knees  to  strengthen  and  sustain. 
If  at  Bethesda's  pool  ye  wait,  in  pain — 
If  others  press  before  and  entrance  find 
To  the  angel-troubled  waters,  whilst  ye,  blind 
And  tottering,  on  the  outside  needs  remain — 
Look  up  !  One  there  a  place  prepareth  us 
Within  His  father's  many-mansion' d  house. 
If  at  Gate  Beautiful,  he  will  hear  your  moans, 
And  send  you  leaping  o'er  the  temple-stones ; 
Or  if  in  Jordan's  wave  ye  strive,  have  faith  ! — 
The  everlasting  arms  are  underneath. 

NARCISSUS. 

"CMBLEM  of  vanity.     Once  a  beautiful  youth 
Enamor'd  of  himself  (so  runs  the  myth), 
Gaz'd  on  his  image  in  a  fount :  forthwith 
He  chang'd  into  a  white  narcissus.     Sooth, 


216  SONNETS. 

A  specious  story  'tis, — thy  face  so  smooth, 

Thy  breath  so  unctuous-sweet,  thy  stem  so  lithe, 

Thy  head  so  drooping,  and  thy  smile  so  blithe  ; 

And  yet  I  love  thee  better — as  in  truth 

All  things  I  better  love — in  thy  divine 

Significance  than  in  thy  mythic  pose  : 

The  "Rose  of  Sharon  " — and  Isaiah's  "  rose  " — 

The  Church  of  Christ — that  made  the  wilderness 

To  blossom,  and  the  solitary  place. 

Emblem  of  holiness— flower  of  Nazarene. 

ANEMONE. 

GAD  flower !  of  Flora  banish' d  from  the  fold, 

Jealous,  since  her  beloved  Zephyrus 
Smil'd  on  thee,  not  ungracious — exil'd  thus 
To  pine  thy  days  upon  the  desert  wold, 
Unwoo'd,  unwooable,  unless  Boreas  bold 
O'ertake  thee,  and  in  passion's  impetus 
Blow  open  thy  chaste  bosom,  covetous 
To  snatch  thy  golden  heart.     And  yet,  "  Behold 
The  lilies  of  the  field  "—for  such  thou  art- 
Carpeting  the  holy  plains  of  Palestine — 
Gennesaret's  glory,  and  outri vailing 
Solomon's  purple  with  thy  crimson  skirt, 
For  which  thou  toil'd'st  not,  neither  did'st  thou  spin. 
Glad  flower!  that  kiss'd  the  feet  of  Israel's  King. 


217 


L'ENVOL 


A  VISION  OF  ART. 

I. 
"HENSE  midway  up  an  awful  mountain-steep, 

Two  maidens  meet,  who  have  not  met  before. 
Each  journeys  from  a  valley-land ;  each  o'er 
Her  heart  wears  Art's  insignia.     One  keeps 
Her  eye  fix'd  on  a  star ;  the  other  weeps, 
O'erwearied,  but  preserves  a  none  less  sure 
Upward  advance,  o'ercoming  more  and  more 
The  beetling  distance;  till,  in  mercy,  Sleep 
O'ertakes  them,  meeting,  and  upon  a  bed 
Of  mossy  ease,  beside  a  lulling  stream, 
Enclasps  them  softly.    Straightway  now  '  twould  seem 
They  had  reach' d  the  toil'd-for  summit,  but  instead 
Of  being  the  topmost  pinnacle,  behold 
Swift  peak  o'ercapping  peak  on  view  is  rolPd. 

II. 

COON  waking,  certes  had  these  maidens  twain 
Fainted  of  sheer  despair,  and  backward  bent 
A  baffled  course,  had  not  the  each  been  sent 
To  uphold  the  other  in  this  hour  of  pain. 
Down  the  dread  steep  they  gaze,  then  up  again 
To  the  o'erfrowning  height.     Shall  they,  half-spent 
With  half  a  pilgrimage,  still  upward  strain 


218  SONNETS. 

A  laboring  ascent,  at  last  to  find 

Vast  distances  beyond,  unreckoned? 

Bright  underneath  the  inviting  valleys  spread 

Their  bowers  of  indolence ;  but  brighter  far 

Beckons  o'erhead  the  spirit-guiding  star. 

Now  meet  their  crossing  eyes — and  up,  where  either 

Alone  had  swoon 'd,  they  lightly  mount  together. 


MY  SONNETS. 

ATY  sonnets — how  I  love  you !    You  have  been 

My  lighthouse-tower,  wherein  the  lamp  of  Truth, 
By  sorrow  hung,  safe  o'er  the  reefs  of  youth 
Hath  guided  me  to  womanhood's  serene, 
Vine-shaded  shores — my  safety-ark,  wherein, 
Under  Hope's  iris  archway,  I  have  sail'd  smooth 
To  Faith's  calm  Ararat.     Loath  and  more  loath 
I  grow  to  quit  your  dear  confines,  and  lean 
I  more  and  yet  more  upon  them  for  support  ; 
Slow  to  meander  forth  on  serious  wing 
Into  those  Daphne-dappled  meads- of  Art, 
A  prey  to  vain  conceits,  or  fancy's  sport; 
Rather  content  my  sweets  to  be  emptying 
Into  this  classic  mould  for  poet's  heart 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


lOm-ll,  '50(2555)470 


PS 
1085 


